Back Burner
by inwardtransience
Summary: First chapters of a few fic ideas I have in my head. May or may not ever be written.
1. The Seducer Aria

_Yeah, the chapter for TRW this week is going to be ridiculously late, writer's block kicking me in the face. I'm...maybe a fifth of the way through the chapter. It's bad._

 _So, partially as apology, partially something I was going to do anyway, here's a thing! I tend to get distracted, it happens, and I'll write some shit in different fics, because my brain won't shut up. These three of them I've written far enough I have the first chapters (and sometimes more) completely done, in a way I don't think I'll be changing them too much if I ever do get to writing them. I've been doing really terrible keeping up with my own damn schedule, so here's a few other things to read in the meantime._

 _I might be adding a couple more first chapters for other fics within the next few weeks — I have two more that are probably only a few hundred words away from finished._

 _Okay, let's just go then. Here we are:_

* * *

 ** _Carmina Armōrum: the Seducer Aria_**

* * *

He remembered it like it was yesterday. So he knew immediately what it meant when the feeling came.

It had been August fifth, last year. He'd finally gotten time off to come visit James and Lily, congratulate them on the birth of their daughter — James was a _father_! — check up on how they were handling their extended isolation. They hadn't been able to afford nearly what the occasion deserved. Voldemort was growing stronger every day, the Ministry weakening with each ounce of influence he gained, acquaintances and even friends dropping like flies. No one had had the emotional energy to be all that happy.

But it had been better than nothing.

At one point in the evening, Lily had taken him aside. For a terrible moment, he had thought something was wrong, he couldn't imagine what. But his heart practically stopped when she'd said, 'You'll be her noðaþir?'

For a few seconds, all he'd been able to summon were dazed blinks. Him? They were picking _him_? 'Me? Are you sure?'

'I am. It might not surprise you, but James isn't sure you're responsible enough.' She had been right — that hadn't surprised him a bit. 'But I think I can trust you, to do what's right. If anything happens to us, I know—'

The blade in his chest twisted again, wiping the memory away.

 _If anything happens to us._

They'd done the proper magic right then and there. There was a bit of magic between parents and their child — that was common knowledge. And being someone's noðaþir was more than promising to be there should — should something happen. Shortly after the birth of a child, a simple little ritual was done, simple in process but hardly in effect. It was a ward, of a kind, inscribed into the souls of the participants. Should the parents die, the noðaþir and noðxam would know immediately, the magic bond between parent and child instantly transferred. A clever bit of magic their ancestors had devised, and very useful, he'd heard.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it now.

He'd known, right away, when the magic had hit, coming over him like the tripping of a ward. He'd known. How he'd known, he wasn't sure — there hadn't been anything specific about the feel of the magic he could think of that had told him explicitly what was going on. Hadn't felt that different from any other ward, really. But he'd known. He'd known. And he'd instantly apparated off to Godric's Hollow, despite the fact that he was currently on duty. He didn't care. He had to see. He had to convince himself he was mistaken. Part of him had been sure he'd get to the house and find nothing amiss. He'd almost been able to taste that awful mint tea James was always drinking on the air, hear his teasing chuckling. Part of him had been sure they were fine.

But the dread rising in him hadn't been convinced.

One look at the house was all it had taken. One look. And there was no longer any way to doubt the truth. With horrible, devastating certainty, he knew. One look was all it had taken.

They were dead. They were all dead.

How long had he been kneeling here? He wasn't sure. Minutes, at least. The familiar sight of the home — half of it smashed to pieces, blackened by a fire so short-lived it had vanished before he'd arrived — had torn him to shreds. In an instant, he couldn't breathe. A compression so powerful he was sure he would pass out, his ribs would crack, his heart would shred itself against the shards. They were dead. He couldn't breathe.

He didn't know how long he'd been kneeling here.

Suddenly, he realised he wasn't alone. He hadn't noticed the crack of apparition, but there was — well, it was _Snivellus_ , standing just a couple metres away. He was at an angle in front of him, facing the house, so he couldn't see his face. But he could see his hands. Shaking. Shaking so badly, Sirius was sure he wouldn't be able to handle a wand at all. With slow, trembling steps, the Marked Death Eater did what Sirius couldn't bring himself to do. He walked into the house.

Part of him really hated a Death Eater going into that house. But the rest of him, most of him, couldn't breathe, hurt too much to care.

He watched, umoving, as Snape drifted through the door, disappearing from view. He reappeared seconds later, the demolished state of the walls on that end of the house not doing much to hide what was inside. Sirius could identify the exact moment Snape saw...saw... Well, saw what he'd been dreading to see. It was obvious. In a second, the young man's unpleasant, scowling face shifted from terrified dread to horrified certainty. His breath caught so hard Sirius could hear it from here, and he fell to his knees, ash splashing up as high as his shoulders. He didn't cry, not exactly — Sirius honestly wasn't sure if Snape was capable of it — but his wailing gasps, growing higher and higher and faster and faster, were almost worse.

It hurt to watch, somehow more than Sirius already hurt. But he couldn't look away. He didn't feel sorry for Snape, not exactly. He didn't think he'd ever be able to feel sorry for the evil little git. But he understood. It wasn't only the grief that had anchored Sirius here, stripped away all his breath. It wasn't only that. It was the terrible, crippling, shattering _guilt_. He should have been here. He should have been here. When they'd been arranging the Fidēlius in the first place, Sirius had been told everything — how it had been Snape, of all people, who had heard the prophecy, brought it to Voldemort, only to betray his master the second he learned who Voldemort planned to target. Sirius should have been here, yes, but he wouldn't have _had_ to have been here if not for Snape. If anything, Snape probably felt more guilty than he did.

In that moment, perhaps for the first time in his entire life, if only a little bit, Sirius Black understood Severus Snape.

Sirius was still sitting, his thoughts weak and clumsy in his head, when Snape pulled out his wand. As he watched, Snape turned his wand around in his hand, brought the tip against his chest, still heaving and shuddering. For just a second, shock pierced the haze of agony hanging over him. Snape was going to kill himself. Right in front of him, over Lily's — over Lily. For just a second, Sirius wondered if he should stop him.

No. No, let him do it. In that moment, he understood Severus Snape. And if death was what he wanted, let him have it.

Honestly, Sirius wasn't sure he'd be very far behind him. What did he have anymore? His family, with the somewhat ambivalent exception of Andi, had shunned him long ago. Peter would have to be dealt with. Oh, would he have to be _dealt with_. Remus, well, he'd never been as close to Remus as James was, to be honest. He'd always been too much of a goody-goody, too much of a bookworm. He was a perfectly fine sort of man, sure, but he'd always just made Sirius feel vaguely guilty just by existing. But without _James_. Without James and Lily and baby Hazel... Well, who did he have left?

No, he didn't think he'd be very far behind him at all.

He had something that had to be _dealt with_ , at the very least. But after that? Well...

'Black.'

He started out of his thoughts, stared up at Snape. While it had hardly been recognisable as his voice — or even as a human voice, for that matter, far too thick and broken — he somehow knew it'd been him. His wand had fallen a few inches from his chest, his face turned toward a corner of the room Sirius couldn't see from here. He looked... Well, Sirius wasn't sure how he looked. 'What?' His voice didn't sound any better than Snape's.

'Get in here.'

'I don't...' That was as much as he could get out. His throat completely failed him. Besides, he wasn't sure what he'd meant to say.

'Hazel is alive.'

Sirius blinked.

And he blinked again.

For long seconds, kneeling there, that was all he could do. Blink like an idiot.

 _Hazel is_ —

No, that...that didn't make any sense. Snape must be mistaken somehow. There was no way an infant could survive...whatever had happened here. Voldemort had come here with the express purpose of killing her, for one thing. While Voldemort would have _liked_ to be rid of James and Lily, surely, they'd just been collateral in this particular case. Even ignoring that, _look at the house!_ There was no way, _no way_ Hazel survived.

Just no way.

But...

But if she _had_...

Sirius forced himself to his feet. His knees ached in protest, sore from having been forced into one position so long against the cold, hard ground, but he ignored it. His chest still hurt more anyway. With steps just as uneven and unsteady as Snape's had been, he started toward the door.

'No.' He glanced over at Snape. He wasn't looking at Sirius, still staring into the corner. 'Don't go through the door.'

'Why not?'

'Come through the wall, here,' he said, pointing at one of the larger gaps in the wall, lowest to the ground.

For a long moment, he stood in place, too confused to really do anything else. Why was Snape telling him to come through the wall? What was there elsewhere in the house that—

 _James_.

Snape was telling him to come through the wall so he wouldn't see—

Why would Snape do that? What did he care? Snape _hated_ James, he _hated_ Sirius. What difference did it make to him?

And then Sirius had a thought. Snape didn't _need_ to care, necessarily. He didn't _need_ to feel sorry for him. Just as Sirius didn't for him. He thought he knew exactly what was going on in Snape's head. It'd been in his own just a minute ago.

Maybe, in that moment, for the first time in his entire life, if only a little bit, Severus Snape understood Sirius Black.

When he climbed through the gap in the wall, he spotted Lily with a glance. Sick weakness overcame him in an instant, and he turned away, grabbing at the remnants of the wall, expelling what little he'd eaten for dinner back out the fissure he'd just entered. The taste of bile in his mouth, the feel of it forced up his nose, only made him feel worse, his knees shaking so hard he was sure he'd collapse without the doubtful support of the house. She was— She was—

 _That_ was hardly recognisable as Lily Potter.

He wasn't even sure how he'd known, honestly. She... So burned up and broken the — the remains hardly seemed completely _human_ anymore. He wasn't sure how he'd known it was her. But he had. That jumble of charred flesh broken by visible bone was all that was left of her.

It seemed _wrong_ , inappropriate in a way that he couldn't really put words to. This was _Lily_. Eternally smiling, kind almost to a fault. That she'd put up with Snape so long was certainly evidence of that. A woman of such beauty and intellect and fire she was frankly a bit intimidating. A witch of such awe-inspiring power and grace she was, if he were to be completely honest with himself, just a little bit frightening. And that was all that was left of her.

It just seemed _wrong_.

In time, he gathered enough control of himself. He was very careful not to look at Lily again, but he did manage to turn back around. But his eyes were drawn by something else. There was another body here — at least, what was left of one. There was something a bit...odd about it. Its robes were charred in a couple places, but overall mostly intact. But what Sirius could see of flesh, on hands and face, just looked...not quite right. It looked like it had melted, twisting and bubbling, made into a malformed, disgusting mockery of the human form.

It took him another couple seconds to guess what that must be.

'Is...' He cleared his throat, forcing in a breath. 'Is that him?'

Snape's eyes flicked toward the corpse, mangled by some unguessable magics, but only for a second. 'Yes. He's gone.'

He's—

Sirius couldn't process that right now. He just couldn't. There was far too much going on. He only had room in his head for so many things. He couldn't add the downfall of Voldemort on top of James and Lily being gone, on top of Hazel—

Right. He turned toward the corner Snape was still staring at. Among the ashen wood, he thought he saw a few narrow poles that might have once been Hazel's cot — James had mentioned at one point she spent the night with them, so he assumed that was only for naps during the day. Sitting there, the bright colours a stark contrast against the fire-blackened surroundings, was a bundle of very familiar blankets. He sunk to his knees a couple steps away, brushed aside some of the debris, and—

Snape was right. Lying there, deep in a sleep so even he assumed it had to be magic, was fifteen-month-old Hazel Potter. Very much alive.

If he'd been in a more clear state of mind, he'd be full of questions. How had she survived? What had happened to Voldemort? How had she passed such obviously violent destruction without suffering the slightest bit of injury? But at the moment, he didn't have any room for those thoughts. At the moment, there was only one thing he could do.

He cried.

* * *

It had felt quite like tearing out what little remained of his heart by hand. But he'd done it.

Hagrid had come, saying something about being sent by Albus, something about taking Hazel somewhere. To Lily's sister's. There was something about that that had bothered him, something half-remembered, but he hadn't had the presence of mind to investigate it. He couldn't take her where he was going. She'd be safe, wherever Albus was putting her. Safe for now. It had hurt, handing the tiny girl over to the gargantuan man, it had hurt so much it'd made him dizzy.

But he'd done it.

Now he was standing, alone with Snape, staring out at what remained of the house. They wouldn't be alone for much longer, he knew. People would come soon. To investigate. To clean the place up — the Fidēlius was still holding, but even he could feel it gradually fraying, and this wasn't something they wanted muggles stumbling in on. They hadn't a lot of time.

But neither of them could move.

Finally, after he knew not how long, empty voice turned uncharacteristically harsh and hoarse, Snape said, 'You didn't keep her.'

His tone was flat, empty, without the accusation he would have expected from anyone else. Good — he probably would have drawn his wand if he'd heard it from _Snape_ of all people. 'No. I have something I need to do. If I come back...'

He _did_ plan to come back. Peter wasn't exactly the greatest of duellists. It would hardly take a second.

But sometimes. Sometimes things went wrong.

'Pettigrew.'

That time, Snape's voice wasn't empty. Sirius heard the hatred on his voice, one that so closely matched the fury dancing in his blood. He didn't think he'd be able to speak, so he just nodded.

'When you find him. Don't make it quick. Make it _hurt_.'

Sirius turned toward Snape to find him already staring at him. Face paler than he'd ever seen it, eyes dark and quivering with impotent agony and righteous loathing. So very like his own.

In that moment, for the first time in their lives, Sirius Black and Severus Snape understood each other perfectly.

Before Sirius could say anything — not that he knew what words exactly were poised on his lips — their moment of blood-thirsty camaraderie was interrupted by two cracks piercing the air, one shortly after the other. The second was Snape vanishing, apparating off who-knows-where. The first was—

Sirius was hit in the side with a sudden jolt of hard, unyielding pressure, hard enough to take him off his feet. Just as he hit the ground, tumbling against the grass, he felt a wrenching in his wrist, his wand skittering away — he recognised it immediately as a disarming charm. The instant he came to a halt, he was hit again. A lesser force this time, only enough to flip him to his back. Another spell immediately on its heels held him fast against the ground — not forceful enough to hurt, but he doubted he'd be able to lift a finger.

As he lay there, breathless with surprise, a figure obscured a portion of the starry sky above him. A figure holding a wand, restraining so much magic on the edge of release a halo of flickering golden light surrounded the entire length. Even in that inconsistent light, Sirius knew who it was after only a second of looking at her. It was Alice. Cheeks wet with tears, wand hand quivering with rage.

Sirius suddenly remembered Lily wasn't the only witch his age who scared him a bit.

' _You_.' Alice's voice was harsh, thick and low with anger, anger that seemed to make the very air around him shiver. It was _possible_ that wasn't his imagination, but he didn't really want to think about that too hard. 'There are _no words_ for how _disgusted_ I am with you right now.'

For one, blissful second, Sirius had no idea what she was talking about. But then, horror washed over him as realisation hit. They'd switched, made Peter fidēlior instead of him, they'd done it in secret — _no one else knew!_ 'I didn't do it,' he said in a gasp, Alice's magic holding him steadily enough in place he could hardly talk above a whisper. 'They switched, it was—' He winced, a sudden tightening from the spell cutting him off.

'I know it was Pettigrew, that's not what I'm talking about! _Hazel_ , you idiot! You gave her up!'

'She'll be fine wherever—'

Her voice was more of a scream than anything, high and loud enough to hurt his ears. 'Albus is sending her to Lily's bitter, magic-hating wretch of a sister! You have _no idea_ what'll happen to her there!'

The memories came back to him, in dribs and drabs, slowed and distorted by the haze still sitting over his thoughts. He remembered Lily deflecting questions about her family again and again, the rare admission that she didn't really get along with them so well, an indistinct impression of a noisy argument on the train platform just before third year. How had he forgotten about that? Maybe, he guessed, because he didn't really know all that much. How did Alice know enough to be so—

Oh. He'd almost forgotten. He wasn't the only person who'd lost someone tonight. Just as he and James were brothers in all but birth, Lily and Alice were practically sisters.

'I...' He swallowed, and tried to shake his head, but couldn't move more than an inch, held still by constricting magic. 'I didn't think.'

'No. You didn't.'

'But...but Peter—'

' _You stupid son of a bitch_ ,' Alice snarled, her voice suddenly at a scream again, ' _let the D.L.E. take care of it!_ Do you really think you're better than _two dozen Aurors_?'

'I should at least help! I might be able to—'

'You're the most use right now taking care of—' Alice froze, a peculiar look of confusion crossing her face. For a moment, she didn't move, didn't speak, just stared into the distance. Then the confusion wiped away, replaced with the sort of cool, dangerously dispassionate look Sirius was by now accustomed to among the DLE. She lifted her wand, the weight holding him down immediately vanishing. 'On second thought, you're the most use to me right now. Give me a hand with this and I'll forgive you. Assuming you go get Hazel after, of course. Alert the Order.'

As Sirius dragged himself again back up to his feet, he saw Alice pull a mirror out of her cloak. She must have been on duty somewhere too, he realised — she was in Auror reds and blacks. He could tell at a glance that mirror wasn't like the one he and James had gotten into so much trouble with, layered with much more complex charms than school-age Remus had been able to come up with. He had already recovered his wand, preparing to invoke his _patrōnus_ , when he suddenly noticed he was missing information. 'Erm, what am I alerting them about?'

'Four Marked Death Eaters just crossed the wardline at my home.'

'I don't—'

'Frank and Neville are there.'

Oh. Well. That wasn't good. Should definitely alert the Order — Alice was probably recruiting help from the Aurors too, with that mirror. Okay, then. He lifted his wand, started the familiar movements, his entire being filling with the memory of, shortly after his mother had disowned him, James telling him he could come live with him, he'd convince his—

He froze, halfway through the spell, when his chest tightened in sudden agony, the horror still standing mostly undisturbed just metres away intruding on the happiest moment of his life. Not that one, then. Okay. His first year in Hogwarts, when he and— No, not that. A few years ago, when he'd gone to the World Cup with— No. When he'd been asked to be best— _No_. That day at the lake, when he and— _No_. That time they'd all gone to a forest in the middle of nowhere on a full— _No, no,_ _ **no**_ _!_

Did he have _any_ happy memories that didn't involve James?

Alice, in a break in her conversation to the mirror, said just three words: 'Hazel is alive.'

Yes. Yes, that would be good enough. It wasn't exactly a happy thought — bittersweet at best — but it was something. It was _enough_. The _patrōnus_ came slower, more hesitantly than it ever had in years, seemingly demanding more energy of him to deign to appear, the silvery lupine dog looking weaker than he was used to, oddly wispy. But it would do. He gave the warning to his little messenger, and it shot into the sky in a burst of light, splitting into a dozen filaments that all vanished in a wink. And it was done.

But apparently not completely done. Before he could move, vise-like fingers grabbed at his wrist, and Godric's Hollow vanished, replaced with the constricting darkness of apparation.

They reappeared somewhere he instantly recognised — just outside of the Longbottoms' house on the edge of a forest he wasn't sure exactly where. They were some metres away, but he could see even from here that the front door was hanging open. 'Woah,' he said, grabbing Alice's sleeve before she could start toward the house. 'Shouldn't we wait for the others?'

She turned, glaring up at him. 'If you think I'm waiting who knows how long with my son in there, you're _insane_. They'll catch up.' Without another word, she spun on her heel and started creeping, almost completely silently, up toward the house. With a long, steadying breath, he tried to force out the haze, force himself to focus on what he was doing, right here, right now. To forget about James, about Lily, about Hazel, if only for these couple minutes. To do what he had to do.

And he started after her, approaching the little cottage with gentle, quiet steps. He was louder than Alice, but she was an _Auror_ , so he was pretty sure that was expected. After a few seconds, they were nearing the door, close enough he could see the lock had been blasted apart, close enough to hear talking, a familiar high cackling that twisted his stomach. Not her. Please, please, _please_ , don't let it be _her_...

Then the night was pierced with screams of agony, so loud and high it was hard to imagine they could have come from a human throat. But somehow he knew — that was Frank. They were using the _cruciātus_ on Frank.

All thoughts of stealth, of strategy, vanished in an instant, Alice rushed through the door, directly toward her husband's voice, Sirius quick on her heels. They stopped in their living room, Sirius knew, but he wasn't really paying attention to that too much. He was more focused on Frank — still alive — twitching on the floor under Bella, the three wands not on Frank pointed directly toward him and Alice, the faces behind them. He'd guessed right, the Lestranges were here, all three of them. The sight of his cousin's face, twisted with manic glee, just made him feel sick again. And the fourth was — _Barty_? Barty Crouch? The Director's son?

Huh.

A giggle under her words, Bella said, 'Looks like we have two more volunteers, boys. Maybe you can tell us what we want to know, and no one will have to die.' Her wand tracked up toward them as she spoke, with the sort of smooth grace that had always seemed to come natural to her. And she smirked.

Sirius, in the back of his own head, couldn't help being a little darkly amused. Was that supposed to be intimidating? On a normal day, his mad, sadistic cousin just struck him as deeply disturbing. But the scene he'd left just moments ago was so much worse he hardly even noticed. It almost like Bella didn't realise this was a very, _very_ bad day to fuck with him. Alice didn't seem any more affected than he did. Her voice somehow smooth and level, she said, 'I suppose that depends on what you want to know.'

Bella's pale face shifted, morphing into a...bright, cheerful grin. It was weird, to say the least. 'I knew you could be reasonable. You've always struck me as a reasonable sort, Alice.' Alice flinched, just barely noticeably. 'So, tell me. What happened? Where is he?'

It took a second for Sirius to make sense of that. These four were torturing Frank in an attempt...to find Voldemort? What? How did that make any sense?

Maybe expecting them to make sense was asking for too much. It did seem like Bella was in charge, after all.

'He's dead,' Alice said before Sirius could even think of how to respond. 'What's left of him is still at the Potters' house. Go see for yourself.'

The grin vanished, replaced by a contorted mess of rage and hatred, her wand hand quivering in anticipation of bloodshed. But before she could do anything, before anyone could move, a choked voice came from the floor. ' _Dēprimātur_.' With startling suddenness, Barty Crouch was forced downward, connecting with the wood floor so solidly the sharp sound of cracking bones filled the air.

 _Frank_? They'd left Frank his _wand_? Just how stupid could they get?

But he had no time to think about that. Bella's wand was turning to Frank, and by the snarling rictus that had replaced her features, Sirius knew what she was about to do. He knew that Bella could cast the dreaded killing curse quite easily — he'd seen her do it. She could do it so quickly, he wouldn't have time for an incantation either. He skipped the words, he skipped even wand motions themselves. He focused as powerfully as he could, bringing to mind the exact spell he wanted — an _expulset_ , tearing and shattering from within, an explosion of energy and violence — and forced reality to match his desire with every bit of will he could summon, everything he had. The spell left him with such fury he was left with his blood turned hot, his knees weak, tingles working across his wand arm and within his skull.

His aim had been perfect. A fissure spread across Bella from hip to shoulder, rending her in two, turning the air to a rain of blood. The expanding pressure of the curse forced over objects all over the room, filling the air with the dancing sound of glass shattering again and again, both of the Lestrange brothers knocked bodily into the air — Alice hit one with a curse as he fell, carving a deep gouge in his chest Sirius knew was fatal.

But he'd been too slow. Even as the last Lestrange rose again to his feet, followed soon by a staggering Barty, the little living room quickly consumed with the sound and fury of their battle, Sirius was partially distracted from the now-familiar mindless rhythm of a duel, seeing again and again and again in his mind's eye the flash of green light that had taken Frank Longbottom from this world.

The fight only continued for maybe thirty seconds, until, right about the time Alice landed Barty with a curse that shredded his leg into messy, gooey pulp, the room was in an instant filled with the red light of stunners, arcing directly at Lestrange where he stood barely withstanding the deluge of curses from Sirius, Barty where he hunched screaming.

And it was over.

The fight was over, but what came next would join the house he'd just left in his nightmares for years to come. What he had made of his cousin Bella, in multiple pieces on the floor, half the room wet with her blood. The pitying looks everyone gave him, on this the night he would later come to acknowledge as that of James's death. The sound of little Neville crying from a room over, too young to know just what all this noise had been, too young to know he'd be perfectly justified in crying right now no matter his age. The horror on the faces of the Aurors and the Order when they learned first that Barty Junior was a Death Eater, and second that Frank had been killed. Because everyone had loved Frank, the young scion of House Longbottom, eminently humble and constantly joking and inherently gentle. _Everyone_.

The look on Alice's face as she stood over her husband's body. Flat, empty, her eyes steady and soulless.

There was only so much a person could take, he understood that now, with a visceral sense of truth it hurt. He thought he'd understood that when he'd nearly watched Snape kill himself. But he knew, he knew, looking at Alice in that moment, that though she would survive this day, she would be forever broken.

He didn't think he was much better off.

But he needed to go. He needed to leave right now, he needed to go find Hazel.

Because there was only so much a person could take.

He didn't think he could live with himself if he left her.

* * *

Finally, Sirius found himself on Privet Drive. It'd taken some time to find the address where he knew Hazel would be sent, pawing through muggle directories, but he'd finally done it. There was something peculiar about this street, though. He'd been on muggle streets before, and he knew at this time of night that they should be lit up with lampposts, the black of night at least partially held back. But it was so dark, darker than it should be. It didn't seem right, it wasn't what he'd expected.

Then he noticed a tall man at the opposite corner of the street, buried in a purple cloak and silvery hair, a little device held up in his hand. Staring in a combination of surprise and curiosity at Sirius. That could only be one person.

Sirius completely ignored him. He strode down the pavement, watching the houses flick by, his pace quick, feet striking the ground with each step hard enough it almost hurt. Soon he came upon Number Four, and couldn't help but grimace with sudden rage. Albus had left Hazel _on the front step_? In the middle of a November night? _What was_ _ **wrong**_ _with him_?

He'd hardly crossed half the garden when he felt Albus spring just behind him and to his side. 'Sirius—'

He jerked away before Albus could lay a hand on his shoulder, as he'd probably been intending, spun around to face the much older man. ' _No_. Whatever it is you have to say, I don't care. I'm taking my noðēx and I'm leaving.'

Albus spoke in his low, smooth, compassionate voice, the voice that made him sound as though he understood, he empathised, he knew. But if Albus thought Sirius was going to leave Hazel here after everything that had happened over the last thirty hours — at least now that Alice had properly slapped some sense into him — he didn't understand at all. He was fucking mental. 'This is what is best for everyone. Things are more complicated than you believe.'

'They always are, aren't they?'

For a second, Albus just stared at him, uncertain. 'I'm afraid I can't let you take her, Sirius. Lily laid complex and powerful wards of protection on Hazel, wards that will only endure with the presence of a close blood relative, wards Hazel will need when Voldemort returns.'

Feeling his own face twist into a glare, he said, 'I'm sorry, did I hear you say _let_? I am Hazel's legal guardian, Albus, in case you've forgotten. It is not your place to stop me.'

'I'd hoped we could—'

'And you'd have to stop me.' Slowly, he pulled out his wand, carefully pointing it toward the ground — he didn't exactly _want_ to fight Albus if he could help it, so there was no reason to be _too_ threatening. Albus looked down at his wand, his head tilted ever so slightly, a look on his face Sirius couldn't quite read. 'I've failed her too much already. Failed her once, not being there for James and Lily. Failed her twice, when I let Hagrid take her. I'm not doing it again.' He had to stop, then. His wand hand was shaking, badly enough he probably wouldn't be able to cast a thing, his throat so tight with shame and fury and grief he couldn't speak. He took a few seconds, working the muscles in his neck, trying to force it all down somewhere it could hide for a few minutes. 'I couldn't live with myself, Albus, you have to see that. I couldn't.'

For a long moment, Albus said nothing, eyes flicking between his wand and his face. Finally, 'And if I decided to press the issue?'

'Then you'll have to kill me.' Something crossed Albus's face, only for a second — Sirius wasn't exactly sure what, and he didn't really care. 'Because if you do anything less, I _will_ be making a legal challenge for her. A very public custody battle, over the daughter of James and Lily Potter — the Girl-Who-Lived, they're calling her! — can't possibly be a fight you want.'

He'd noticed before that it was, despite what most people believed, not at all impossible to change Albus Dumbledore's mind. It was really quite simple — for him to abandon a course of action, he only had to be threatened with a response that would generate greater damage than his intentions would benefits. This was an observation Sirius had never had occasion to make use of himself, but now he was glad he'd put it together. As long as Sirius was around, and capable of at least adequately performing as her guardian, Albus had no legal means to keep Hazel away from him. And Sirius was perfectly willing to follow through on his threat of legal action if he had to. Imagine that — the last heir of a Noble House, daughter of two widely-known war heroes, herself the vanquisher of the most feared Dark Lord in living memory by means as-yet unexplained, forced into the hands of muggles by the High Enchanter himself over the objection of her rightful noðaþir. Just imagine what the _Prophet_ would do with that. No, that was definitely not something Albus wanted to deal with.

Actually, just killing Sirius would get Albus what he wanted with little fuss — assuming Alice didn't make trouble for him later — but he was kind of hoping Albus still wasn't quite that ruthless.

Something of a rueful smile on his ancient face, Albus said, 'No, I suppose we can't have that. This is a risk you are taking, but...' He paused, frowning ever so slightly. Not directly at Sirius, but slightly to the side, toward the ground, as though examining something only he could see. '...with proper caution, I think, all reasonable consequences could be managed. Your flat would not be safe enough, of course.'

'I know. Augusta invited me to stay at Longbottom Manor until I can make arrangements. Alice is going to help me with that when we're—' He hesitated, not at all sure how to say what he was thinking. While putting together how to find Hazel in the first place, they'd tried coming up with what Sirius should do about his living situation, but neither of them had been able to think of anything. They'd both been having too many issues with concentration, thinking clearly. The last thirty hours or so had been very, _very_ long. Honestly, he'd been a little impressed Alice was even still capable of holding a conversation. '—up to it.'

'I wish you the best of luck, then.'

Sirius didn't bother responding, just turned away. That'd obviously been the end of the conversation, and he had nothing more to offer. In a moment he was kneeling before the steps, gently lifting Hazel from the concrete. He noticed the layered texture of charms over her immediately, most of which he thought he recognised — a charm to keep her warm, a charm to keep her asleep, a charm to ward off any passing animals or people from noticing her. He awkwardly shifted Hazel over to one arm, picking up a letter that had fallen out of the mass of blankets, and noticed another charm on the step, he thought probably a cushioning charm of some sort.

Okay, so maybe Albus wasn't _completely_ crazy. He still thought it was a stupid thing to do, but he grudgingly admitted all that was better than nothing.

Lily had told him, 'But I think I can trust you, to do what's right.' It had been _Lily_ who had asked him to be noðaþir — even if he'd expected them to pick him, which he hadn't, he'd have thought James would do the asking. Into his stunned silence, she'd said, 'If anything happens to us, I know you'll do absolutely everything you can to look out for her.

'Sometimes, Sirius, you're a complete idiot. You act without thinking, you ignore important details, you forget your priorities in the heat of the moment. And, to be honest, there are times you annoy me so much I can't stand to be in the same room with you.' Here, a warm sort of smile had spread on her face, a knowing look in her eyes. 'But I know, for the people you care about, that stupidity works for you. You forget everything else, and do whatever it takes, no matter how dangerous, no matter how short-sighted, to protect the people you love. It's the one admirable thing you took with you from your family.

'So, if you were in our position, wouldn't you pick you?'

No. No, he wasn't sure he would. Especially after what he'd almost done last night. If Alice hadn't hexed the stupid out of him, he honestly wasn't sure what would have happened. There were too many horrid possibilities down the line he just couldn't know.

But standing there in the night, James's daughter tight in his arms, he vowed to himself he would never make such a fucking idiotic mistake again. He was such a mess, he'd been even before last night, he knew that. But he'd do whatever he could to do better. No more drinking for one — he'd have to put a stop to that. His days as a philanderer were probably over. Not that he was sure he'd even be able to get himself in the proper mood for a while anyway. That stupidity Lily had talked about — he thought it could be better termed _rage_ , but that was neither here nor there — was a more difficult problem to fix, but he'd work on it. He didn't know how, but he'd do whatever it took. He'd do whatever it took to justify the trust James and Lily had shown him, to deserve the responsibility they'd given him.

He'd do whatever it took.

Exhausted in body and spirit almost beyond all human endurance, standing steady by unshakeable will alone, Sirius Black carried the Girl-Who-Lived away into the night.

* * *

Sirius hit the button to end the phone call, then hung the muggle contraption from its place on the wall. He still felt a bit odd using such things — Alice had felt it necessary to remind him more than once to use a normal speaking volume — but he had to admit there was something blissfully convenient about it. Especially since he'd discovered the miracle that was delivery food. He'd managed to wrangle a list of delivery places that serviced this building, and had already made it through half of them. Some were better than others, but there was just something about the whole process that he loved — it was almost better than having a house elf.

Well, okay, not even close. The flat he'd moved into with Hazel — what, two weeks ago now? — was something of a disaster area.

The place itself wasn't so bad, a bright, open thing one of Alice's friends had found, several storeys above the ground deep in muggle London. He knew it wasn't at all a cheap place by muggle standards — he didn't know much of such things, but the wideness of the rooms, the highness of the ceilings, the shininess of the foreign appliances gave him that idea. But even this was actually _cheaper_ than where he'd been living before, since he'd been living hardly a block off Diagon Alley, and the property values around there were always astronomically high.

This was a muggle building, but he and Hazel weren't the only magicals here — the flat just across the hall from theirs was now host to a rotation of trusted Aurors and Hit Wizards and Witches he and Alice had personally asked to keep an eye on the place. Most of them were older, or without families of their own, so they could afford to spend their off hours giving him a little peace of mind. Albus himself had dropped in to put up a thorough suite of wards on both flats. Amelia had come by an hour later to give the wards a surreptitious scan, even crippling one — she'd told Sirius it would have given Albus the name of every single person who crossed the wardline, as well as the name of everyone currently within their bounds, and he was a little surprised to find himself grateful she'd neutralised it. It probably wouldn't be long until Albus found it was gone, but he hoped the old man would get the message. Any post being sent to either of the two of them was also being redirected across the hall, which he was even more grateful for — they'd already detected a fair number of curses, and he really just didn't want to deal with that.

And apparently he wasn't any more prepared to deal with cleaning up after Hazel, either.

Since the damage had been limited to one section of the house, a good proportion of Hazel's things had survived. Apparently, when Voldemort... The _event_ had happened in the nursery — which Sirius remembered being on the _second_ floor, so that they'd found Hazel unharmed at ground level was even more unlikely — so anything that had been there was gone. Much of her clothing and some of her toys and such, though, hadn't been touched. Alastor, in one of his rare thoughtful moods, had cleaned the place out of everything useable for him. Everything belonging to James and Lily had been packed away somewhere, should the time come he or Alice or Remus would want to go through it. He hadn't even asked where — he'd ask when he was ready.

He'd ended up filling the place with more than just that. Somewhat to his surprise — though he really should have expected it — the flat across the hall had been flooded with gifts from well-wishers. Toys for Hazel, mostly, but sometimes something for him, since it was common knowledge he'd taken custody of her, and the occasional package of homemade food or sweets. Even the rare bit of gold. All of it carefully scanned for curses before Sirius even looked through it, of course, what he didn't pick as useful packed up to be donated. Anything edible they just threw away without checking — it was frighteningly possible someone could have slipped in a potion or toxin even the best examinations couldn't detect.

So the mess the flat was in was completely understandable. Lily had said at one point that Hazel left a room looking like a cyclone had gone through it, and Sirius had to admit the comparison wasn't terrible. Toys were strewn everywhere, books pulled off shelves to be left lying open in the middle of the room — he'd intentionally arranged it so the less valuable volumes were near the bottom exactly because he'd expected her to do that. He could still tell what colour the carpet was, though it was a near thing. The mess was especially impressive considering Hazel couldn't even walk yet, not really. She could totter around a little bit, sure, but not much more than that. And she was only sixteen months old — Sirius couldn't imagine what he'd be dealing with when she was three or four.

Of course, she'd found a way to get around much faster than her unsteady legs could carry her, and just about give him a heart attack at the same time. The worst part was it was his _own damn fault_. He'd _bought_ her that toy broomstick, after all. He hadn't thought she'd actually be able to use it yet — she'd only been a year old at the time! He'd only gotten it in the first place to give James and Lily a hard time, maybe a headache or two. That was an uncle's sacred duty, after all. From what they'd told him only a few days later, Hazel had figured out how to use that little thing _before she'd taken her first step_. Kid was crazy. Several times a day, he'd find himself sitting helplessly, Hazel whizzing around the room like a maniac, her high giggling bouncing off the walls. Until she inevitably bumped into something, sent tumbling into the air, caught in an instant by the emergency enchantments built into the thing, set safely on the floor before he could even draw his wand. Still giggling away, every time.

Yeah, that had backfired. That broomstick was certainly giving _someone_ a headache. He'd destroy the cursed thing with glee if Hazel didn't love it so much.

He blinked himself back to the present moment. He'd drifted off for a little there, probably only a few seconds. Getting better at not doing that so much, but it was a slow process, one of many things he was working on. The call with the delivery place had gotten a bit rushed at the end — Hazel had started tugging at his trousers a minute ago, and while she was usually pretty good about waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing, _usually_ wasn't _always_. He looked down to her.

He was getting better at this, too. Looking at her used to feel like a knife in the chest, but by now it was hardly more than just a little increased tightness. He couldn't really help it. It was impossible at this age to tell what her face would turn out like, but her hair, the peculiarly thin hair of a young child, had enough red in it he was pretty sure from where she'd inherited that, her eyes so heartbreakingly familiar. The angry cut on her forehead, gradually fading, wasn't nearly enough to distract him.

In quiet moments, he found himself feeling relieved she looked as she did. He'd been much closer to James, after all — if she'd taken after her father he didn't know how he'd have managed.

Dropping down to his knees before her, he said, 'What's wrong, kit?' He couldn't put to words exactly how he knew something was wrong. It wasn't in her face, exactly — her facial expressions weren't varied enough yet to really pick up much, and the faces of children this young are too pudgy and indistinct anyway. Maybe it was magic, he honestly didn't know.

And, no, he didn't know why he called her _kit_ either. He always had. It was just a thing he did.

Hazel said a single word in that thin, nasally toddler voice of hers, with that sense of demand he'd noticed she'd developed at some point, 'Mama.'

Okay. Ow.

It had been hard, the first two weeks or so. He hadn't had any idea how to go about explaining to a one-year-old child that her parents were dead, that they weren't coming back — especially since he still didn't like thinking about that himself. There had been a lot of crying, and a number of tantrums, complete with bursts of accidental magic. She'd actually hurt him a couple times, but never so badly he couldn't just fix it with a single quick healing charm. But slowly, gradually, those episodes had grown shorter and shorter, less and less frequent. She still had nightmares — were children this young even _supposed_ to have nightmares? — but even those were getting better. Sirius knew that, before long, Hazel would simply forget about her parents entirely. Children her age didn't have all that great of long term memories, after all.

He really wasn't sure how to feel about that. It would make it easier for her, he guessed, but it still struck him as deeply depressing.

'I'm sorry, kit,' he said, trying to make his voice as soft and gentle as he possibly could. 'But Mama's not coming. She's not coming back.'

Hazel gave him a long look, steady green eyes just staring at him. He got the very strange impression she didn't believe him. Then she said another word, just a single word again — the sounds themselves were complete gibberish, but by now he'd long ago figured out she was trying to say _apple sauce_.

And there went that mood whiplash again. He was never going to get used to how she kept doing that. Plastering a fake smile on his face, he said, 'Sure, kit, no problem.' A kiss to the top of her head, and he was gone, heading straight for the kitchen — which still felt like something out of a foreign country to him.

He could only have been gone, what, thirty seconds? maybe a little longer? But by the time he got back to the sitting room, it was to find Hazel already on her little broomstick, zooming around the room again like a lunatic. He really, _really_ shouldn't have been surprised.

This smile, at least, wasn't fake at all.

* * *

The phone against his ear, he stared at the carpet under his feet, a severe frown on his face. The Auror on the other end of the line, sitting in the flat just at the other side of the hall, waiting silently, no doubt feeling just as annoyed as he.

Albus Dumbledore was here, demanding to see him. And Sirius really didn't want to.

At the time of the attack, he'd been far too distraught to actually think for two seconds. To put together the pieces into something resembling a coherent picture. While Alice had been in a mental state none better — especially considering she'd lost her husband that same night — Alice _had_ observed enough details to examine them after the fact more cautiously. And they'd talked it out, with a few trusted individuals — Remus, Amelia, Aberforth, Alastor, even Minerva. Their conclusions hadn't exactly been comforting.

Starting at the end of that night and working backwards, there was his insistence on leaving Hazel with those muggles. The fact that they were muggles in itself wasn't really the problem — though some of them weren't so pleased with that either. Forcing her on people who possibly hadn't even known she existed, without their consent or even knowledge, with nothing even close to a guarantee they would treat her well, that was completely inexcusable. Not to mention _illegal_. Sirius having been named her noðaþir was a matter of legal record. And even if Sirius had been unavailable, it _still_ wouldn't have been permissible. James and Lily had updated their will shortly after Hazel's birth, and while guardianship of Hazel was to fall to Sirius _first_ , that didn't mean he was _last_. After Sirius was Alice, then Marlene (who'd still been alive when the will had been drafted), then Augusta, then _Minerva_ , of all people — that one had surprised him. Dumbledore had had absolutely no right to unilaterally decide to ignore all that and place Hazel somewhere else. Even that excuse about blood wards wasn't justification enough — especially since Aberforth had pointed out those blood wards would only do her any good _while physically inside the house_ , and weren't really much better than defenses they could set up themselves.

And there were his actions the night itself — or, to be more accurate, actions they later attributed to him. He'd been too distracted to notice at the time, but when Alastor had done a sweep of the house, he'd noticed something peculiar. In the room he'd found the bodies of Lily and Voldemort, where Sirius had retrieved Hazel, Alastor had discovered trace magics hanging around that should not have been there, laid _after_ the explosion that had done the damage. While most of the traces had been old enough and dispersed enough by that point he couldn't get anything specific — a single person casting a number of mildly powerful spells, he thought, but who and what he couldn't discern — one curious bit of information had been eminently clear. A phoenix had been in that room, most likely singing over Hazel, in the bare minutes before Sirius had gotten there. That implied the identity of the wizard well enough.

No one was entirely sure what to think about that, but they agreed it probably wasn't good.

Then, there were the events leading up to the two of them going into hiding in the first place. As those directly involved knew — a secret they kept still from those not already in the know — a prophecy had been made, predicting the birth of someone capable of giving Voldemort a solid kicking of the arse. Ignoring Albus's inability to stop Severus from getting the information to Voldemort, there were a number of problems with his response. He'd quickly identified as the possible subjects the unborn children of either the Potters or the Longbottoms — both Lily and Alice had been, he was pretty sure, seven months pregnant at the time, Neville and Hazel later born on neighboring days, at the proper time. Which, of course, meant the lives of all six were in danger. He'd scrambled to arrange protections for both families, including the Fidēlius. When Severus betrayed Voldemort, they'd learnt he was targeting the Potters alone, so some of the protections on the Longbottoms, including the Fidēlius, were lifted while the Potters stayed in protected isolation.

While Alice did darkly acknowledge that, had defenses over the Longbottoms not been lifted, Frank would still be alive, it was the selection of each family's fidēlior where the real problem came up. On the Potter side, to Sirius's memory, no one had questioned the orders Albus had given. James had immediately asked Sirius to do it, but Sirius had thought that was just too bloody _obvious_. The Death Eaters would be on him in a week. They'd considered Remus, but Sirius hadn't thought it was the best idea — at the time, to his shame, he'd suspected Remus of being the unidentified traitor inside the Order, something he'd profusely apologised for since. So he'd suggested the rat. _No one_ would have expected the rat. James informed Albus of their selection, and that was that. On the Longbottom side, things hadn't gone quite so smoothly.

Alice had immediately suggested _herself_.

When Sirius had first been told about that, he'd been absolutely speechless. He'd had _no idea_ the fidēlior for a location could permanently live _within its bounds_. He'd had absolutely no idea, but Alice insisted there was no reason it couldn't be done. Assertions Aberforth and Amelia had both confirmed, Minerva going to Flitwick for an additional opinion, just in case. But Albus, for whatever reason, had come up with his excuses — she didn't even remember what they had been anymore. Alice had caved, then gave her second choice: Lily. Lily would be fidēlior for the Longbottoms, and Alice would be fidēlior for the Potters. Albus had refused this idea as well. Finally, Frank had then suggested his mother. Apparently, Albus had even had objections to _that_ idea, but those arguments had been even more flimsy, so he'd ceded in the end.

If their fidēlior stayed within the protected area, either their own or the opposite, neither would have been in any danger. Augusta, behind the ancient and immensely powerful wards of House Longbottom, and herself a dangerous duellist and implacable tactician, was safer than most, but still vulnerable by comparison. Pettigrew, on the other hand, was a sitting duck. The only conclusion to draw from this, Alice said, was obvious.

Albus had _wanted_ their defenses to fail. Albus had somehow _known_ that whatever had happened in that nursery, whatever had killed Voldemort and left Hazel with that scar across her forehead, he'd _known_ that would happen. _And he'd let it_.

Which, on the one hand, was the right decision to make strategically. Sacrificing two lives to end Voldemort wasn't a bad trade. All of their little council could see that, to various degrees of willingness. But that didn't change the fact that, as far as they could see, Albus had, while claiming to be trying to keep them safe, _intentionally arranged for either the Potters or Longbottoms to die_.

Sirius understood the decision he'd made. He really did. He just wasn't sure he could trust the old man ever again.

What they suspected he'd been up to in the four years since didn't make Sirius feel any better.

He really, _really_ didn't want to see Albus. But he was pretty sure that, should he choose no, it wouldn't be long until that choice was made irrelevant. He held no illusions Albus couldn't get to him if he really wanted to.

With an aggrieved sigh, he said, 'Alright. Send him in.' He hung up the phone, paced to his dining table, and slumped down into a seat, crossing his arms in preemptive defensiveness.

The sight of Albus Dumbledore smoothly strolling in — decked in his usual peculiarly eccentric way, same warm smile, same twinkling blue eyes — did nothing to make him feel better. Ever since their little group had started secretly voicing their concerns to each other, all Sirius could feel looking upon the most influential wizard in Britain, once one of his personal heroes, was a sickening sense of betrayal.

Sirius just watched him walk in, not saying anything, not offering. He was sure Albus had expected him to. Be all happy to see him, politely show him to a chair, get him some tea or something, who knows. From the way he hesitated — a couple metres from the table, still smiling amiably down at him — he knew Albus was expecting it. But Sirius did nothing, said nothing. Just stared at him. He didn't want Albus here, so the quicker the old man could get to the point, the less annoyed Sirius would have to be. Especially since he already knew what Albus was here about.

Apparently deciding not to draw attention to the rudeness, Albus graciously fell into a seat at the table, across from Sirius. 'Good evening, my boy,' he said in that soft, low tone of his Sirius had heard called _grandfatherly_ so many times it was honestly hard not to think the word now.

It took everything Sirius had not to react negatively to being addressed like that. It'd always annoyed him, even back in his school days, and it really wasn't getting better. 'Albus.'

'First,' he said, his voice shifting immediately to one of sympathy, 'allow me to express my condolences for the death of your mother.'

Sirius blinked — he hadn't expected that. His mother had died nearly a month ago now, he suspected from copious abuse of alcohol and possibly other substances he didn't really care to know about. The woman had always been a drinker and, while she had deigned, after repeated urgings from multiple parties he might have had a hand in coordinating, to readmit most of the expelled Blacks to the House — even some cousins he hadn't even _known_ about — she'd still taken the collapse of that disgusting little revolution harder than he thought seemly. Of course, Mother's death also happened to make him Lord Black. Arrangements were already being made for him and Hazel to move to his childhood home, which he had mixed feelings about, and he was to take up the family seat in the Wizengamot at the meeting next weekend, which he had overwhelmingly negative feelings about.

He refocused himself as Albus started, 'She was—'

'—a right ghastly hag of a woman, yes,' he finished the thought. Well, not _Albus's_ thought, but his own was more accurate anyway. His relationship with his mother had been _somewhat_ better in the last couple years, yes, but that mostly meant he could stand in the same room as her for five minutes without having to worry about her hexing him. They'd hardly been close. 'I know you're not here on government business, High Enchanter. Get to the point.'

For a long moment, Albus just stared at him, heavy blue eyes meeting his own, silent. Was he disappointed Sirius wasn't more broken up about Mother dying? Probably, knowing him, but that wasn't something Sirius was about to feel guilty about. Woman had been awful. Or was he looking for something else? Just in case, Sirius confirmed his barriers were up — he'd learnt the basics of occlumency when he'd been young, improved his skill in drabbles during the war, then trained up to near impenetrability since taking in Hazel. Not perfect, but he was pretty sure he'd be able to keep Albus out if he decided to be stupid. Finally Albus sighed, reached into a pocket of his robes.

Sirius forced himself not to react as Albus pulled a little sheaf of paper out of pocket and, without a wand or word or visible effort, expanded the newspaper to full size and sent it right in front of Sirius with a light banishment. He knew, intellectually, that wasn't actually that impressive. All he'd done was canceled the shrinking charm he'd put on it earlier — a shrinking he'd almost certainly done with a wand in the first place — and slipped it toward him with basic telekinesis. It actually wasn't that hard. Sirius probably wouldn't have been able to do it, but he knew for a fact Alice could. He knew a lot of people whose names started with _A_ who could, actually. He wouldn't allow himself to get distracted by Albus's silly theatrics.

He glanced down at a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , entirely unsurprised to see it. 'Another of their ridiculous Taxwyð issues. I'm really getting tired of them.'

'It's not the fact of the issue itself I have a problem with,' Albus said, in that patronisingly patient, infuriatingly slow voice of his. 'But rather the content. Or, to be more accurate, the content you contributed.'

'You have a problem with me taking interviews, now?'

Albus raised a single eyebrow, very slightly. 'I suppose that depends on the interview.'

Yeah. This was another thing Albus had been doing where Hazel was involved that was very much annoying him. Even in his relative isolation, he'd heard the crazy rumors that had been floating around about her. How she had some incredibly powerful magical abilities to resist Voldemort as she'd done, how she was a great witch of the light — or dark, take your pick — on the rise, how she was even now off in secret training somewhere — speculations as to who under varied wildly. Somehow, over the past few years, the Girl-Who-Lived had acquired an absolutely mythical feel among the people of Britain, which just pissed him the fuck off. She was _five years old_ , people, honestly. The only intensive training she was receiving at the moment was _learning how to fucking read_. So, he'd gotten tired of it, and given the _Prophet_ an interview for another of their silly war-ending-anniversary issues to set the record straight. Or at least try too.

Which he'd known even as he'd set it up Albus wouldn't exactly be pleased about. It was Amelia who had noticed it first. Albus had never come out and _said_ any of that nonsense people were spouting off about. But, Amelia had pointed out, he never _directly disagreed_ either. Silence from this one particular man on this one particular issue was peculiar. The uninformed — those who didn't immediately believe the gossip, anyway — would take Albus's silence as tacit admission, only seeking to preserve plausible deniability for whatever absurd reason. Apparently, Amelia had talked to _Xeno Lovegood_ of all people about it, and he was certain Albus was intentionally spreading these rumors behind the scenes, sometimes even formulating his own. Sirius wasn't willing to take nearly anything that nutter said on faith alone, but Alastor said he was maybe on to something there. That had only pissed Sirius off more.

So, he had absolutely no patience for this. 'Look, Dumbledore, if you want to make someone's little girl into some ludicrously transparent political tool or cultural symbol or whatever for your own inexplicable purposes, I'm warning you _right now_ , find someone else, because I _won't_ let you use mine.'

'Yours?' Now both of Albus's eyebrows were raised, a bit further than before. He didn't show it a single bit, still his level, serene self, even though Sirius was positive he was annoyed. Maybe only a little annoyed, but annoyed. 'And here I was unaware Elizabeth Augusta Hazel Potter was your daughter.'

Sirius forced himself not to show any hint of sheepishness. This had happened very recently. Only a couple months ago, Hazel had started going to muggle primary school — under an assumed name and far enough from home he had to apparate her there and back, so their location couldn't be traced (a precaution now irrelevant with their imminent move). Sirius had been a bit hesitant about the idea, but really did think it best she get a more thorough early education than he trusted himself to put together, and the added exposure to children her own age really couldn't hurt. At the time, the other kids she'd known had mostly been limited to Neville and Susan, and that hardly counted. For an extra bit of convenience, primary school would end just as Hogwarts would start, so that was nice. He'd had to carefully explain to her not to say anything _too_ magical — and avoid any accidental magic if she could help it — and stacked a number of tracking charms on her, and even given her an emergency portkey before he'd been able to convince himself she'd be fine.

Even then, he spent most of the time she was at school waiting in this café he'd found hardly a block away, monitoring simple detection wards he'd thrown over the school. Just in case.

But anyway, after she'd been going there maybe two weeks, she'd suddenly started calling him _Daddy_ , just about giving him a heart attack the first time. Until then she'd just been using various permutations on _Sirius_ or _Padfoot_ — she apparently thought Padfoot was extremely cuddly, which Sirius thought was a little amusing for some reason he couldn't put words to — so he completely hadn't expected that. He'd tried to talk her out of it, to explain to her that he wasn't really her father. Which was a little pointless, since she knew that full well, had seen pictures and heard stories of James and Lily so many times he wouldn't be surprised if it were starting to annoy her by this point. She'd responded with one of those simple, childish rambles she was so given to, saying how the other kids had daddies, and he'd been taking care of her since longer than she could remember, and she loved him just fine, so why not?

Later, when Sirius had told her about it, Alice had just laughed at him, told him to bow to the inevitable. So he had. Barely a month and a half later, and that twinge of guilt, that slightest of feelings he was betraying James somehow, was _mostly_ gone.

Honestly, he couldn't imagine how he'd feel any different even if she legitimately were his daughter in the proper sense, so like it made any difference.

But, to Albus's non-question, he just said, 'And here I was unaware she was yours.'

Albus stared at him, hard and steady, for long, long moments. Sirius had no idea why it was he did this all the time. The part of him that was always, in a sense, Padfoot had for as long as he could remember taken this as...well, it was hard to put into words, exactly. A dominance thing, basically, a threat. A level, direct, unblinking stare like that — especially when it was coming from a sorcerer who was, undoubtedly, much more powerful and knowledgeable than himself — made him distinctly uncomfortable. Or, at least, it _had_ made him uncomfortable. Now, from how his attitude toward Albus had changed the last few years, well...

He wouldn't _fight_ Albus, in most senses of the word. He had no real desire to, they were _mostly_ on the same side, and he'd probably lose if he did. He just refused to be cowed, refused to put up with his shite anymore. Whatever he wanted Sirius to do had to be justified on its own merits now. Just being Albus Dumbledore wasn't enough. That automatic trust was gone. And the old man had most likely never deserved it in the first place.

'I assure you, Lord Black,' Albus said, his voice consciously neutral, 'if I were to exercise my influence over our nation's public consciousness where Hazel is concerned, it would certainly not be with intent to cause her harm, and certainly only with our people's best interests at heart.'

Once again, Sirius had to reign in an emotional reaction, to not show anything, keep himself obscure. For two reasons, this time. The first was surprise, at how Albus had actually used his proper title — though he supposed it didn't help that it was simply so _new_ to him. The second was, in two words, vindicated fury. Vindication, because Albus had admitted without admitting that he _had_ been spreading all these ridiculous rumors. Fury, because, well, _he had been spreading all these ridiculous rumors_. What possible purpose could that serve? All he was doing was building Hazel, a five-year-old girl, into a monolith larger than life, a target for both reverence and hatred. Come her entrance into Hogwarts, when she _inevitably_ failed to meet the hopelessly unrealistic expectations people would form for her, those on the reverence side would feel disappointed, betrayed, those on the hatred side validated, empowered. It was a strategy _doomed to fail_. Sirius could see that, and he would be the first to admit he wasn't the smartest wizard around.

Not for the first time, Sirius wondered if there wasn't something wrong with Albus Dumbledore.

But he didn't feel like saying any of that. Mostly because he was rather sure Albus would brush off any of his concerns while hardly giving them a thought. 'Disagree with me if you wish, High Enchanter, but I feel the value of our actions is in their consequences, not in our intentions.'

Albus smiled a soft, kindly smile, his voice bent as though gently pointing out the simplest of mistakes. 'Ah, one must be careful when thinking only of the consequences. Great good may have been done by men thinking such, but it is all too easy to become so blinded by the goal one misses the evil in the methods.'

'Just as many a man has had his vision made so narrow by his intentions he completely fails to see the evils he's created. I guess which is worse is a matter of opinion.' In his mind, there wasn't really a debate there.

After that, Albus left easily enough. But by his bearing as he walked, the way Albus looked at him, Sirius knew. Before, Sirius might not have been the most _useful_ of Albus's people — he had no illusions about that. There were people more skilled, people more powerful, people more connected. What he had been was perfectly loyal, perfectly trustworthy. Standing with Albus not only in the Order, but even in public, where doing so was often much less personally desirable.

But he knew, just looking at him. Albus wasn't entirely sure Sirius was on his side anymore.

Which was well enough, he guessed. He wasn't sure, himself.

* * *

noðaþir (IPA: /nɔ.ðɑ.θɪr/, roughly "no-tha-thir") — _Brīþwn term for godfather._

noðxam (IPA: /nɔð.xɑm/, roughly "noth- **h** ahm") — _Brīþwn term for godmother._

fidēlior — _I decided not to change the name of the Fidēlius charm, though I **almost** did. But, since I'm such a tinkerer, the Secret Keeper is instead called fidēlior. In my head, the lengthy business of the ritual itself involves a number of lines addressed at the fidēlior, each of which starts with Fidēlior tū ("you, most faithful"), which is the source for the name of the charm._

noðēx (IPA: /nɔð.øx/, roughly "no-the **h** ") — _Brīþwn term for goddaughter._

High Enchanter — _As in my other fics, this replaces the title of "Chief Warlock." Because that title is just etymologically unlikely._

Taxwyð (IPA: /tɑ.ʝʷɨð/, roughly "tah-gwith") — _Depending on context, the Brīþwn name for the month of November, or the festival of October 31st / November 1st. Pretty much just applied the sound changes in my head to Welsh Tachwedd._

* * *

 _Oh, hey, this still exists! This is the...third HP fanfiction I ever came up with. Before I started TRW, I actually debated for some time over whether I would do that or this one. I guess it's somewhat more typical of HP fanfiction than my usual stuff, in that it follows something not too dissimilar from the canon plot — "The Seducer Aria" includes the pre-Hogwarts years and first and second year, and other fics would continue on from there. Involves a lot of my usual worldbuilding nonsense, including types of magic that did not come up in canon — Hazel herself learns song-based casting — and a powerful, magical-raised GWL in Slytherin who **isn't** an evil crazy person. Weird how rarely that seems to happen in fanfiction._

 _I still like the idea. We'll see what happens when TLG and TRW are finished.  
~Wings_


	2. A Crash Course in Enchanting and

**_A Crash Course in Enchanting and Interdimensional Mechanics_**

* * *

Ellie knocked on the door of her head of house's office at exactly the appropriate time, and settled in to wait. Not that she had long to wait — she'd hardly been standing there for two seconds before a call of, 'Come in, Miss Potter,' came from the other side. She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it softly again behind her.

Of the two offices Severus kept this was the nicer one, the one he used when he _didn't_ want to intimidate or creep out the person he was meeting with. So it was mostly only Slytherins or parents of Slytherins who ever saw the inside, honestly. Dark-but-warm red-tinted woods, comfortable arm chairs, a low fire crackling moodily, bookshelves stacked to bursting with titles in various languages. Not a bad place.

Making her way to the chairs in front of the desk, she glanced to the side with no little curiosity. What the hell was Umbridge doing here? By the slight tension in how Severus was sitting behind his desk, she knew the woman hadn't been invited. The Ministry stooge had shown a bit of interest in her toward the beginning of the year, sure — rather hostile interest. But as Ellie had continued to treat her with nothing more than respectful indifference, hardly reacting to her incessant insults and threats against the Headmaster, she'd quickly gone back to treating her as any other student. Almost better than the average student, to be honest: when, after hitting herself with a calming charm, Ellie had asked her to stop calling Maïa a mudblood, she'd apologised and never said it again. It was bloody weird. Of course, she was mostly nice to Slytherins from Noble Houses, and it was hardly like Ellie was her _favourite_ student, but it was still _weird_.

She could only assume Umbridge had assumed she'd be standing with the Headmaster in his stubborn little temper tantrum against the Ministry. The woman _obviously_ hadn't done her research.

She'd even been invited to join that idiotic Inquisitorial Squad of hers. Begged off with the excuse she had revising to do for the OWLs — honestly, she didn't understand how people could need to revise for exams — which Umbridge had accepted with as much grace as the woman seemed capable of. Had no idea what Umbridge was trying to do with that nonsense, but honestly she couldn't figure out the point of this little tyranny going on here, and she'd just stopped caring a while ago. Really just ignoring it by now.

After a muttering of 'Professor' with a nod at each Severus and Umbridge, she slung her bag over the back of a chair, and settled in. Oh, right, not just here with Severus. She sighed in her head, careful not to make any actual noise with it, and crossed her legs and sat up all proper and shite. Ergh, stupid bitch.

She knew from the way Severus was watching her that he knew how uncomfortable she was, and was amused by it. She couldn't say exactly _how_ she knew that — it didn't show on his face or nothing — but she knew. His voice conspicuously flat, he said, 'On time yet again, Miss Potter. Continue being so punctual and I may actually grow to expect it of you.' Not addressing Umbridge's presence, then. All right.

Only long practice kept her from rolling her eyes. 'Daphne can be very distracting. I guess I've just gotten better at ignoring her when I have to be somewhere.'

She wasn't looking that direction, but she still didn't miss Umbridge shifting in her seat somewhat. She knew from occasional hints Umbridge dropped that she didn't approve of such things, but the woman hadn't said a word against their relationship specifically, so Ellie had remained tactfully silent herself. No point opening what she knew would be an annoying argument, after all.

By the tightness around his lips as his eyes flicked for only an instant in Umbridge's direction, Severus hadn't missed it either. Oh, don't let _him_ start it... 'On to business, then.' Severus pulled a parchment folder from seemingly nowhere, flipped it open on his desk. 'Since a few months into second year, your marks have been consistently excellent.' She fought not to look sheepish — she hadn't exactly applied herself in class at first, bad habit from her time at the Dursleys, but she'd quickly turned around when Severus had called her into this very office early in second year to verbally eviscerate her for it. Being yelled at by a dark sorcerer can be quite motivating. 'I would be astounded if you did not do well enough in all your OWLs to advance into sixth-year classes in whatever subject you like.'

He continued without leaving any sort of pause for her to respond — not that she'd especially been planning to. 'However, taking everything would be a waste of time. It would make sense to streamline your efforts. Last we discussed the topic, you had no particular thoughts of what you would like to do after Hogwarts, but that was some time ago. Have you had any ideas since?'

'Well...' She glanced at Umbridge again quick. She wasn't sure if saying this in front of Umbridge was a _great_ idea, but, come to think of it, she didn't see how there was anything serious Umbridge could do with the information. Even assuming she would if she could, which Ellie would give even odds. Still not sure how to predict Umbridge half the time. 'I have had some thoughts, actually.' Severus raised an eyebrow slightly. 'Well, I'll be taking my family's seat in the Wizengamot eventually, of course, but I don't think doing it right away is a good idea. By that point I doubt I'd have the experience and knowledge necessary to make a good showing of myself.'

'That is probably an accurate assumption.'

'Right.' She shrugged a little, glanced at Umbridge again. 'You know I've been playing around with enchanting in my free time.'

Umbridge spoke for the first time, her habitually girlish voice somewhat reproachful. 'You are aware unlicensed enchanting is unlawful?'

Severus turned to give her an unimpressed sort of look. 'If she were selling enchanted objects to other people without a license, you would be correct. Conducting experiments in private or enchanting devices for her own use, so long as she breaks no other laws, are both permitted under regulations as they currently stand.' His eyes flicked back to Ellie. 'I assume you haven't been selling anything you've enchanted.' It wasn't really a question.

She still had to think about that for a split second. 'No, I haven't.' It only counted as a sale if she accepted anything in exchange — she was pretty sure giving away custom enchanted objects for free was still perfectly fine, even without a license. Not that she would have admitted to anything illegal in front of Umbridge in any case, but the easy hesitation as she thought about it looked good anyway.

'I didn't mean to accuse you, Miss Potter,' Umbridge said, the reproachfulness replaced with an extra dose of sugariness. 'I was simply hoping to ensure you were aware of legalities involved in such things. We wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong idea, would we?'

A part of her was reluctant to believe Umbridge, but that _would_ be a reasonable thing for someone without ulterior motives to do. So she just nodded.

Severus nudged them back on topic. 'So, you've been considering studying to be an enchantress, then.'

'Artificer, actually.'

Head tilting slightly, the barest look of surprise crossed Severus's face. Not too unusual, she guessed — it is a somewhat rarer and more difficult qualification. Not by a _lot_ , but somewhat. 'Well.' He glanced down at the folder in front of him again. 'If I remember correctly, most master artificers will only accept candidates with advanced background in Charms and Runes, of course, but also Arithmancy and almost always Transfiguration. Most do not require Defence, but they certainly wouldn't look unkindly on it, and any Dark Arts licensure you end up with in the next couple years can only help you.'

Umbridge shifted in her chair slightly again at the reminder that Ellie was in a Dark Arts apprenticeship under Severus at the moment, but she didn't say anything.

'All of those,' Severus said, continuing as though he hadn't noticed, 'I would be surprised to see anything but an O. Your marks in Transfiguration are the weakest of the five, but I would be absolutely _shocked_ if you don't at least get an E, which is all you really need. So far as other classes go, there would be little point to continuing your studies in History, Herbology, or Astronomy. If you're still revising for any of those three at this late date, I would suggest you simply not bother.'

It was entirely impossible to not smile a little at that.

'As far as Potions goes, that is your choice. It is not your best class—' He only sounded slightly bitter. '—but your work is good enough to earn an O in the OWL. There are a few artificers who also have advanced knowledge of alchemy. Some of the best, in fact. However, that is a lot of work — that would involve all the educational background and qualifications of an enchanter, a spellcrafter, _and_ an alchemist, so it is not a path commonly taken. I would suggest finishing the NEWT Potions course, then decide at a later date if studying alchemy appeals to you. It would be easier to get your NEWT now than to have to go back to intermediate potions should you develop an interest in alchemy later in life.

'So,' he said, flipping the folder closed, 'that is my recommendation. Charms, Runes, Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Defence, Potions. I don't foresee you having any problems in any of those six, but you may like to prioritise Transfiguration and Arithmancy just in case. In the latter half of your seventh year, we can discuss how you should go about pursuing the masteries and licensures necessary, but I don't expect any problems there.' He added, a tinge of humour on his voice, 'There are advantages to fame, after all.'

It was entirely impossible to not roll her eyes at that.

Within a couple minutes she was leaving the room. She checked the time quick, decided the girls would probably still be in the library, so started that way. Somewhat to her surprise, she wasn't even out of the dungeons yet when she caught up with Umbridge, who had left some minutes ahead of Ellie. She was standing off to the side of the hallway, shuffling through that stupid bag of hers, as riotously pink as everything else. God, she dressed like such a psychopath. Ellie watched her for a moment before shrugging it off. It was weird Umbridge was still down here, but whatever. She passed Umbridge to continue on down the hall.

She barely even felt the curse coming.

* * *

The world snapped back into existence around her with the familiar adrenaline rush of a revival charm, and Ellie immediately set to berating herself. Cursed in the back with hardly noticing. Severus would be so disappointed. And Marlene, she would _never_ let her forget it. God, so embarrassing...

'Wakey, wakey, Missy Potty.'

Fuck. She let out a long sigh, rubbing at her suddenly aching head. Even though she'd never met the woman the sickly, sing-song voice belonged to, she'd heard enough descriptions of her she could make a very confident guess. 'A second, please, Cousin. Revival charms give me a headache.'

Ellie stretched out as well as she could with her newfound magical sense, trying to pick apart her surroundings, how many people she was dealing with. It wasn't just Lestrange. One Death Eater, two Death Eater, three Death Eater... Eight? It felt like eight. Fuck. She couldn't tell where they were though. _Everything_ was magic, the floors and tall, spindly wooden shelves around her so thoroughly enchanted they were easily detectable, but so thick she couldn't even start at a guess of exactly what was in them. Too complicated.

She did pick out her wand, thank god, and a collection of small, dormant enchantments she knew were some of her practice constructs — yes, she does carry them with her at all times, she's aware that's a bit paranoid. At least her wand was _here_ , in her bag, but her bag was obviously being carried by one of the Death Eaters. That was a problem.

There was a pretty simple way to fix that problem, but it might get a bit tricky pulling it off. She'd have to stall anyway. She knew the Order would be able to find her eventually, but she'd need to stay alive long enough for the hypocrite brigade to show up.

But anyway, Lestrange was cackling, the sound sharp and dripping with blood and madness, echoing in a way that told Ellie that wherever she was was a rather large place. ' _Oooh_ , so _polite_ , little Miss Potter. I'm surprised. I wouldn't think my blood-traitor of a—'

'As much as I enjoy watching you play with your food, Bellatrix, we do have a job to do here. Get up, girl.'

It took some effort to ease the tension from her own jaw, stop herself from grinding her teeth — that smooth, cold voice was all too identifiable as Lucius Malfoy. Just perfect. Being in this fuckhead's presence was bad enough when she could imagine cursing him _in the face_ , did not feel like dealing with him without her wand. She sat up on the hard, stone floor, opened her eyes to look around. Eig–no, nine Death Eaters, in the familiar solid black hoods and solid white masks. So very perfect. Ellie took a moment to pick out the one carrying her bag before looking past them. They were surrounded by rows and rows of shelves, one after another after another disappearing into the distance in all directions, including above their heads, seeming almost like a cavernous library, all lit by soft blue-white light emanating from—

Oh... _fuck_. She knew where this was. Ellie hadn't actually been here, but Severus had once described it, the same conversation he'd told her about that bloody stupid prophecy. They were in the Department of Mysteries. At a guess, the Death Eaters wanted her to retrieve that copy of the prophecy for them. It seemed things weren't going to stop being perfect any time soon here.

It'd really be nice if the Order would hurry up and get here already.

Tch. Might as well play along. Ellie obediently got up to her feet, trying to make the motion as casual and careless as possible. By the slight tensing she noticed in the posture of two of the Death Eaters around her she'd successfully annoyed them. Ha ha, _good_. Wait, no, er. Maybe it _wasn't_ such a good idea to piss off the dark magic -using terrorists while she was unarmed and outnumbered nine to one. Yeah, that might be a stupid thing to do.

But, oh well. It'd be far more fun. This was only going to end one way no matter what, might as well enjoy herself along the way.

Before anyone got back to giving orders, Ellie took a moment to reach down into herself, a thing she never could quite explain, stretching for the wellspring of fire and light deep within. Good, she could still touch it, they hadn't slipped her a dampening potion or anything while she was out. Which was really a bit stupid of them. Well, okay, to be completely fair, they probably didn't know she'd been working on wandless magic lately, but they should have guessed it. She meant, they did know who her mother was — Lily Evans had been famous for her skill with wandless magic long before she'd been known for any other reason, self-taught even _before_ starting at Hogwarts. Not that she'd be pointing out their mistake for them, of course, sounded like their problem. She drew her power up, not forcing it out to attempt to cast any sort of spell, just leaving it to sit just under her skin, ready to be used at the slightest cue.

Filling herself with magic like this tends to feel a bit odd, a vibrating tingling sensation running across her entire body, an impression of airy lightness, like she needn't walk across the ground, she can just float around if she wants. Well, actually, she _can_ just float around if she wants, she's done that. Kinda tiring, though. But, not that she minded. Really, she was mostly just glad she'd managed to cut off normal feelings, filling her head with warm giddiness and giggling song, before she'd really started getting scared.

Honestly, she uses the same trick to keep herself from getting too angry with people quite a lot. Is that bad? Really sounds like the sort of thing she shouldn't be doing...

'This way, Miss Potter,' Malfoy said, gesturing her toward where he stood just off a shelf. 'There's something here you'll be getting for us.'

Ellie glanced around quick, then shrugged in her head. Playing along was still the best idea. She'd be needing a distraction to swipe her bag successfully, hopefully she could hold out long enough for the Order to show up and provide it. That blood tracker Dumbledore thought she didn't know about could detect her here, right? Warding against blood-based tracking charms was nearly impossible. With how empty it felt here, it was probably after hours, the Order should have had plenty of time to get going. Yeah, shouldn't take them long at all. So she calmly walked over to the shelf, glancing at the ball of spun glass just in front of Malfoy, entirely unsurprised to see the label under it. 'Tom finally making a serious effort to get this thing, huh?'

A piercing shriek of rage, contorted into, 'You _dare_ speak his—!'

' _Calm_ , Bellatrix.'

The urge to shake her head was too strong to hold it in — she had absolutely no idea how he could possibly tolerate followers who were just plain fucking insane. Seemed like more trouble than they were worth, really. 'Why doesn't he just come in here and get it himself? That's the thing I don't get. I wouldn't think the wards here would be up to the challenge of keeping out a sorcerer like him.'

'It is not for you to know the Dark Lord's motives,' Malfoy said in a frigid drawl. So, he had no clue either. All right then. 'You will simply obey.'

Ellie turned away from the prophecy to meet Malfoy's eyes through the slits in his mask. Ah, less fun to imagine cursing him in the face if she couldn't actually see his face. Or, she wondered, if she hit him with a blood-boiling curse, would steam trickle out of the eye holes? Hmm. Forcing her voice light and casual, the imagined sound of Malfoy's choking screams joining the song of magic in her head, she said, 'No, I don't think I will.'

'That would not be wise, Miss Potter.'

Crossing her arms over her chest, she let out a sniff. 'I'm not the only person around displaying a lack of wisdom. If your Lord wants my cooperation, he's going about it all wrong. I wouldn't be opposed to giving him this prophecy on the face of it — I mean it, Lord Malfoy,' Ellie added when his eyes narrowed with clear disbelief. 'I don't particularly care one way or the other.' Of course, that was mostly just because Tom would likely come after her no matter what, and it wasn't like there was anything in there that would help him anyway. Whether the idiot got the prophecy or not made exactly zero difference. 'I would have given it to him freely if he _asked_.

'That's the mistake your Lord has made over and over, you see,' she said, her tone conversational. Not hard to do, really, with her mood buoyed by the magic crackling just under her skin. Okay, slightly difficult to keep her voice level, stop herself from slipping into a slight sing-song tone she just knew would piss them off a bit too much, but she managed. 'He keeps trying to _force_ me to do what he wants. Back when we met in first year, he abducted me and dragged me down to wake me up in front of that _stupid_ mirror, then when the—' fake '—philosopher's stone appeared in my pocket moved to kill me and take it from my corpse.' Arsehole had swiped her out of my bed and everything, one hell of a wakeup call. 'I would have just _given_ it to him — it's not like it meant anything to me, didn't even know what the bloody thing _was_ at the time—' Would have let him have it even if she had, there's _no such thing as a fucking philosopher's stone_. '—there was absolutely _no reason_ to kill me for it. And if he'd just been a bit more civilised he'd have been resurrected three years earlier, and would be immortal and drowning in gold to boot.' Except not, because _the whole thing was fake_ , fucking idiot, she still couldn't get over this. 'Speaking of resurrections, if he'd wanted my blood for that purpose so badly he could have _just. Asked._ '

There was a snort of derision from behind her. 'You expect us to believe you would just hand your blood over to the Dark Lord to use in a ritual?'

Hello again, Master Jugson. ' _That_ ritual?' She shrugged. 'Sure, why not? Especially since using my blood like that gives me a layer of protection — since _my_ blood runs in _his_ veins, any spell cast on _either_ of us that can be carried through blood will affect _both_ of us.' She could practically feel the shock thick in the air around her, and Ellie couldn't help smirking a little. 'Didn't think of that, did you? That's really rather sad. It's only the founding principle of all blood magic.'

'I doubt Dumbledore would have dirtied his precious _saviour_ by teaching her any blood magic.'

She glanced quick over her shoulder, frowning a little. Whose voice was that? She didn't think she knew this one. Probably one of the Azkaban escapees, then — she'd met all the free Death Eaters at one point or another the last few years, or all the big names at least. 'Well, you'd be right that Dumbledore hasn't taught me any blood magic. Of course, he hasn't taught me _anything else_ either, so that doesn't exactly mean anything.' A flare of legitimate annoyance pierced the giddiness enveloping her, she didn't even have to fake the derisive snort. 'It baffles me how everyone seems to assume Dumbledore and I have any kind of relationship at all. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I've had a conversation with him, and I haven't exactly enjoyed any of them. I rather hate the man, in fact. He's had far too much power over my life thus far, and I don't like it.'

Honestly? She had long been completely tired of Dumbledore's shite. She meant, she hadn't liked him from the very first time she'd met him — she's far from the first Slytherin ever to find his whole eccentric old man act grating, she hated trying to talk to him so fucking much — but he'd done absolutely nothing to change her mind since. The way he insisted on chewing on his foot and trying (and failing) to manipulate her into stupid shite, there was precious little chance of that changing. If it weren't practically guaranteed Tom would come after her anyway, or other people she cared about, she'd have already stepped back to enjoy the show as Dumbledore failed to clean up _his own bloody mess_.

But, anyway, she was in the middle of a villainous monologue here. Well, not technically a _villainous_ monologue. She guessed from their perspective? Whatever. Melodramatically stalling, anyway. Sort of surprised they were letting her get away with it. 'I don't like being forced, you see. I would have just given Tom this prophecy if he'd asked. But, now that he's tried to _force_ me to get it for him, I'm rather inclined to refuse just on principle. Which Tom really should have realised was a possibility — I bet he'd do the same in my shoes.'

'You think yourself and the Dark Lord so similar? Others have been killed for lesser presumptions.' Malfoy's voice was low and dangerous when he said it, the implied threat clear.

Ellie rolled her eyes at Malfoy, entirely just because she knew how completely his attempt to intimidate her had failed would annoy him. Tee hee. 'Sorcerers born to Noble Houses, but abandoned to be raised in poverty and neglect by muggles who hated us, and once we got to Hogwarts had to deal with the hot-cold nonsense that comes with being both a Parselmouth and a halfblood in Slytherin.' She shook her head to herself. 'No, we have _nothing_ in common, not at all.'

'You filthy little _bitch_ , how _dare_ you—'

'What, did he not tell you?' She glanced over her shoulder, meeting the half-hidden, twitching eyes of her second cousin — it was the messy black hair and visible shaking that gave away which she was. And, were these idiots really going to let her keep talking like this? What's up with that? She meant, it's convenient, don't get her wrong, she just didn't get it. 'Mum was a Gaunt, dad was a muggle. You second-generation slaves should ask your parents, they went to school with him. They'll know your Lord is a halfblood. Or has he actually been telling you he's a pureblood? Cheeky bastard — and I do mean that literally.' Even though they're nowhere around, Ellie could still hear Luna giggle and Daphne groan.

Malfoy let out an aggravated sigh. 'This is a waste of time.' By the time she had turned back around to face him, it was already too late.

Not that it particularly mattered. It was an _imperitāns_ , obviously, she recognised the warm, smooth, seductive feel of the magic. But it couldn't even settle over her properly. The magic she had still waiting just under her skin slowed it down somewhat, but Ellie already had a peculiar resistance to mental magic she'd never quite understood. Legilimens found reading her mind peculiarly difficult, mind-altering charms of all sorts had to be ridiculously overpowered to get the proper effect. Turns out she's even virtually immune to most love potions — that incident led to almost dizzying relief for her and a lifetime of nightmares for Jugson. Not this Jugson, of course, his son, graduated last year. And, after a bit of practice courtesy of Barty Junior, she can shrug off an _imperitāns_ like it's not even there. She considered a moment whether she should play along, pretend the charm was actually working, to maybe buy a little time.

But Malfoy would probably just make her grab the prophecy right away anyway, so that was pointless. Oh well. With a sharp thought, Ellie shattered the spell still futilely attempting to enthrall her, tendrils of magic dissipating to nothing in the air. She shot Malfoy a cold glare, going as Severus with it as she could possibly manage. ' _Seriously_? Was that sad excuse for an _imperitāns_ the best you can do? _Really_? I barely even felt that. Pathetic.'

Fury clear on his voice, Malfoy snarled, 'Taunting me isn't the best idea, Potter. Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?'

'Do _you_?' This would probably come back to bite her in the arse later, but why not. She relaxed — not a muscle, not anything physical. It was hard to explain. The tense wall of self holding her magic back eased somewhat, allowing tendrils of thick energy to slip out into the air, grasping blindly at the shelves, the Death Eaters around her. This was the mark of a sorcerer, a constant upwelling of magic, unconsciously channelled through their bodies with natural ease. It had started happening to her last fall, it'd taken her a few days with Severus to learn how to stop it, to hold the magic in. Most mages are sensitive enough to detect it, and whether they are or not it tends to make them uncomfortable, growing terrified, anxious, hyperactive, or aroused, depending on exactly how they feel about the sorcerer or sorceress in question...except Luna, for some reason. It just makes her smile and hum to herself, but she's _Luna Lovegood_ , Ellie expects weird by this point. Generally uncomfortable, anyway. Which was exactly what she was going for this time — she couldn't help a smirk at the muttering and shuffling behind her, the sudden shocked tension in Malfoy's shoulders. 'Do you _really_?'

For a moment, there was no response. Then, sounding oddly resigned, Malfoy said, 'You're not going to make me use Travers, are you?'

Oh. Shite. Travers was here. Dammit. A number of Death Eaters had made a particular name for themselves from their cruelty, but Travers had earned quite a degree of infamy for brutally raping younger women and girls. No, thanks, they would not be doing that tonight. Ellie realised, even as her accelerating heart started lifting up into her throat, the song of magic in her head turning sharp and eager, that it looked like it was time to make her own distraction. 'Ergh, you Death Eaters are _disgusting_.' But she moved to the proper shelf anyway, lifting a hand up to the proper prophecy sphere. She touched a single finger to it, feeling the deadly enchantment binding the glass to the shelf rapidly unspool. But she didn't pick it up. Instead, she let her hand fall to the wood just beneath and in front—

She drew the light within up and into her grasp, moulded it with gentle tendrils of thought into the shape she needed, pushed the charm down her arm, her skin tingling as it moved, and into her wrist, her joints burning with it.

—forced into the shelf the most powerful banishing charm she could manage wandlessly. And, this being _her_ , that meant rather fucking powerful. The wood cracked and splintered, the prophecy shooting off through the gap between shelves, the entire structure teetering dangerously. 'Fetch.' With a now-familiar flex of will and magic, she called up shadows, and stepped into icy blackness.

She travelled in total darkness for an infinite instant before the world faded back into existence, the shadow magic trick Severus had taught her depositing her behind the row opposite the one she'd broken. She quick reached for the light again, twisted it into the shape of a silencing charm, one of the earliest she'd taught herself to cast wandlessly, and draped the thing over her whole body. She stepped into shadows again, going another row over, then another, then slipping over to the end of the row. Ninety-four the way she'd come, ninety-three the opposite — the door had to be this way. Alright, then.

The shouting and cursing and occasional sounds of wood and glass shattering was coming closer — these idiots had the subtly of a herd of stampeding rhinoceroses (rhinocera?) — so Ellie again stepped into shadows, this time appearing some metres above the floor. This really was a high-ceilinged room here, how convenient. With ease of practice, with hardly even a thought, she tossed aside her human shell, let her body bubble and shrink, the sensation rather like sinking into a bath filled with warm water, and took up her animal shell instead. Which was just convenient. Not only could she watch from above much easier, not only would her red-on-black colouring make her almost impossible to spot, not only would the silencing charm she'd cast a moment ago cover all sound from her wings, but falcons had far keener eyesight than did humans — the blue light did shift shade slightly, the shadows did seem somewhat deeper, but it was child's play to keep an eye on all of them, their forms easily trackable even with shelves and orbs flicking by between them.

Gliding with slow, light strokes, slipping from one high shelf to another, she trailed the Death Eaters searching for her. She'd spotted the one carrying her bag immediately, but she needed to wait until there wasn't anyone else behind him. Come on, come on, she didn't have all day. These idiots were getting increasingly agitated, judging by how much more frequently they were simply blowing shelves up, she didn't have time to—

There it was. Ellie changed again in mid air, swapping her falcon shell for the human, then immediately fell into shadows. She appeared almost instantly behind the Death Eater carrying her bag, grabbed the soft cloth with both hands, then vanished into shadows before anyone could react. Yes! That had gone perfectly, and now she had all her things!

And, she noticed as she appeared again, the Death Eater's robe. Er. Whoops? Hadn't meant to do that, but shadow magic could be finicky...

Letting the robe fall to the ground, she slung the bag over her shoulder, and prepared to— 'There she is!' Without thinking, she jumped right back into nothingness, appearing a row over and a few metres above the floor, again slipping into her avian form. It was common knowledge that magic couldn't be cast by an animagus when in their animal form. That was, she'd discovered right away, not strictly true. Magic couldn't be cast _with a wand_ , but anything the animagus could do wandlessly was fair game.

Since she could walk through shadows, she was basically an enormous cheater.

But, unfortunately, she couldn't just pop through shadows straight back to Hogwarts. The Ministry, she'd been told, had wards blocking it. She could _theoretically_ go right to the wardline, step across, and _then_ go straight to Hogwarts, but she'd never actually been to the Ministry before, so she had no idea where the wardline was. So she had to do this the slow way. She slipped silently through the air, skipping a dozen metres forward at a time with each dip into shadows, working her way further from her pursuers. Before long, the air behind and below her was screaming and shuddering, pressure waves erupting again and again from powerful area-effect magic. And slowly closing in.

She'd just have to do something about that.

Ellie tipped down a little, alighting on top of one narrow shelf, instantly switching back to her human form — the shelf teetered slightly, but it stayed upright. She snatched her wand out of her bag, didn't hesitate a second before starting the incantation. ' _Austre furēns, terram—_ ' She drew out the moment only slightly, savouring the feeling of hot power flowing through her, so intense her body vibrated with it, her entire right arm seared, a light giddiness in her head powerful enough she couldn't help but smile. She _loved_ casting big magic. '— _inundā_.' An unpleasant shiver ran through her as the spell left, but it didn't strip her of her grin.

She loved this spell. With a heavy crack, a bolt of blue-white lightning shot from the tip of her wand, striking halfway down the shelf in front of her the next instant, the bolt splitting on contact, dividing into three, into nine, into twenty-seven, into eighty-one, and then hundreds, and then more hundreds, and then thousands, and then _more_. The shelf in front of her was consumed with a writhing, crackling sheath of sharp blue-white, prophecy orbs popping under the onslaught with little _poof_ noises, the wood catching alight at a single touch. The lightning spread down to the ground, then across, dividing again and again and again as it spread, reaching one row of shelves, then another, expanding in an inexorable wave. If anything, the enchantments in shelves and floor only seemed to energise the magic further, pushing it faster and larger than she was used to, the bolts of lightning as thick as her wrist filling the air with the screaming and snapping of electricity so loud it was almost giving her a headache.

Huh. Looked like she was making a bit of a mess. Not that she really cared. In fact, she couldn't help but grin. She'd bet a thousand galleons the Death Eaters hadn't expect that. Fucking idiots.

Ellie yanked herself into her falcon guise and again took flight, flitting from shelf to shelf, skipping through shadows again and again instead of flying around or over them. She passed a couple doors out, then decided an instant too late she wanted to take that one, warm orange light flooding through the open doorway. She doubled back through shadows quick, smoothly banked in a graceful turn right through the center of—

In an instant, Ellie's skin turned to fire, her bones turned to glass, and she let out a high scream that tore at her suddenly human-shaped throat as she tumbled to the granite floor, her bag sliding away from her. But it only lasted a moment, the pain quickly vanishing, leaving her breathless on the floor. Okay. _Ow_. Apparently they had wards against animagi worked into the doorframes. Would _not_ be trying that again. She grabbed her bag, quickly summoning a few blasting discs with a gesture from her wand. She activated them all at once with another charm, scattered them just inside the doorway. The Death Eaters had probably heard her screaming, and her short incapacitation had given them far too much time to catch up. Hopefully, one would lose a leg to one of those.

Somewhat shaky, Ellie pushed herself to her feet, and started stumbling through... What the hell was _this_ place? Why did they have a big bloody aquarium filled with _brains_? You know what, she didn't want to know. She walked off toward the door directly opposite, her unsteady steps growing gradually more confident as she went. She threw the door open, and recognised the dark, rounded room with a dozen blue torches and wooden doors from Severus's description as the entrance, which was good. She also recognised the five figures standing inside as more Death Eaters, which was bad.

Did managing her really rate fourteen Death Eaters? Huh. The thought left her strangely pleased.

Before they could react, she took aim and snarled out, ' _Rḗtte_!' The air again filled with a crackling of electricity as a flickering shaft of purple-white brilliance leapt from her wand at the Death Eaters. She turned before the elemental magic hit, meaning to go back the way she'd come, but stuttered to a halt when she heard a _second_ explosion at the same time as the first, screaming rending the air in both directions. Laid out on the ground just inside the doorway on the opposite side of the room with the creepy tentacle brains was one of the Death Eaters from the Hall of Prophecy, clutching his mauled leg, blood already pooling thick on the ground. And behind him, staring in shock, were a few more. But not staring for long. Lestrange snapped off a nasty-looking blasting curse even as the Death Eaters in this room gathered themselves behind her.

Ellie ducked to the side, scrambling for the door one over, a smirk crossing her face as Lestrange's curse hit one of the Death Eaters, setting him screaming. Idiot. She threw the door open, stepped through it even as she cast over her shoulder, throwing as much power into it as she could spare at the moment. ' _Pugiūmbrae ningite._ ' Teetering slightly with the draw of the powerful dark elemental magic, she didn't bother pausing to watch her charm do its work. She slammed the door closed behind her, taking the barest second to breathe.

But only a second. She cast a quick locking and then sealing charm on the door, then summoned four more discs from her bag, slapped one on either side of the frame, stuck to the wall with built-in sticking charms, then activated them with a wave of her wand. The barrier appeared as a barely-visible, green-blue sheen across the entire surface. They'd be able to get the door open just fine, but then they'd need to beat her enchantment before making their way through. Thinking her idea through in her head, she ran down the narrow hall she'd found herself in — offices, looked like. She opened a door at random, finding a cavernous, dark room filled with glowing stars and floating planets. That would do. She reached inside, placing the other two discs, digging her cloak out of her bag with the other hand, activated the enchantment, then snatched her hand back before the barrier could snap into place. She renewed her silencing charm, flung her father's cloak over her shoulders, and continued down the hall.

And not a moment too soon. She felt the tactile snap of stubborn magics cancelling each other out, and a group of angry Death Eaters came pouring around the little corner in the L-shaped hall. 'There!' one in the front called, pointing at the barrier blocking the weird solar system room off. The Death Eaters tumbled in that direction, another touching his wand to the barrier. Drawing runes, she noticed — she stopped slinking away, craning her head around out of curiosity. The runic spell the Death Eater was carving into the barrier meant literally _sever from the world_. Hmm, clever. With a last flare of power, her barrier winked out, and the Death Eaters filed out of the hall.

Once they were gone, Ellie opened the last door in the hall, slipped inside, and shut it quietly behind her.

The second she saw where she was, and knowing her silencing charm would cover it up anyway, she let out a noisy curse. _Of course_ she just had to end up here. She'd never been here before herself, but she still recognised the old, angular stone benches worked into a squared amphitheatre, at the center the crumbling arch of the Veil of Death. Any of the rooms she could have ended up in and it was this one. Of course.

Ignoring the seductive whispering she heard from the tattered, unnaturally black cloth, Ellie moved around the rim of the room, heading for the next door in line. She tapped her wand against the door, casting a quick charm to look through the wood. It was a possibility the Unspeakables had charmed against it, but they fortunately hadn't — there was that room with the damn creepy brains again. She noticed the Death Eater whose leg she'd blown off was still there, either dead or in stasis. That way _could_ work, but she'd rather open as few doors as possible, just in case. Letting the charm fall, she slipped to the next door, cast the charm again. Hall of Prophecy again.

The next door, the charm showed her the circular entrance chamber, which was good. Evidently, the Death Eaters had managed to end her elemental spell — unsurprising, it wasn't that difficult — but there were still a few shards of oily black ice lying around. As well as what looked like a couple more Death Eater corpses, which was also good. Dumbledore would likely be having words with her for using that spell, but she wasn't apologising. However, the rest of the Death Eaters appeared to have made their way back to this room, which was bad. Even as she watched, one of them twirled his wand in a tight arc she recognised—

She sighed as the magic rose, a warm stickiness clinging to her. A tracking charm. Great. With a few quick flicks of her wand and incantations muttered under her breath, she layered the door and wall with spell-resistant ice three feet thick, then turned to slip deeper into the room, stepping between the benches toward the center. She'd hardly gone a few feet before she came to a sudden halt. She was being targeted by a _second_ tracking charm. This one was a little different though. Instead of coming from _outside_ , the feeling seemed to be coming from _inside_ , warmth flowing through her very blood. She knew what this was.

Ellie let out a smirk. Better late than never.

She shucked off her cloak again, stuffing it back into her bag — it'd only slow her down now. With a swing of her wand, _Saepem glaciālem_ ' _profundam_ ,' a tall wall of shimmering, blue-purple ice appeared between her and the door. She hopped a few more benches down, cast the charm again, creating another layer of spell-resistant ice between herself and the Death Eaters. She repeated the process a couple more times, until she was on the bottom level of the chamber, the Veil to her back.

As the sounds of explosions and tinkling ice filled the air, Ellie gave the Veil a slightly wary glance over her shoulder. That thing was rather creepy, all fluttering around like that despite the stillness of the air, seeming a solid black that would be simply impossible without magic, indistinct whispers wafting off the surface. Perhaps most unnervingly, it didn't _feel_ like anything. In her sense of magic, the gap within the archway was a complete and total dead spot. Even more so than air, an absence of anything so absolute it didn't exist, despite the fact that she could see and hear something there. It was creepy.

But she had something more important to deal with. _Cumfulmine lacerā_. Before the curse could fully leave her wand, she caught it with a quick flourish. Imagining a single line of light splitting into five, she changed one advanced blasting curse into five, then duplicated the five again into twenty-five. She let out a hiss, wincing as tendrils of lightning crawled against skin, her shoulder burning, the bones in her wrist screaming with the force of magic they contained. Okay, maybe she wouldn't be making any more. Twenty-five was good, right? Well, if they were stupid enough not to block or dodge them twenty-five would be plenty to kill all the remaining Death Eaters at once, so she supposed it really was good enough...

Her last barrier of ice was blown apart, and she didn't even wait for the steam to clear before releasing the twenty-five curses in her grasp, the sudden dimming of the light within her forcing her gasping to her knees. The brilliant purple charms shot into the crowd of approaching figures, exploding with flashes of blue and yellow light and a deafening chorus of lightning. She thought a few of them might have been hit, it was hard to tell, but she wasn't going to wait to find out.

Ellie reached again for the weakened light within her, drawing it up and out, coaxing it back to full life. After only a second it was again a brilliant fire roaring within her, filling her with light and life, bringing a wide grin to her face. She popped back to her feet even as curses started to rain down on her. She dodged the first couple that would have actually hit her, then deflected a couple more with neat twitches of her wand, contorting the last into the movement for a piercing curse, mildly disappointed as she watched the Death Eater she'd aimed it at deflect it easily, then conjured and ducked behind a stone barrier when killing curses from three different wands converged on her all at once. Then she stepped through shadows again, moving only a couple metres to reappear with another, ' _Rḗtte_ ,' the brilliant lightning bolt taking one unfortunate Death Eater straight in the chest, before she again had to go on the defensive, deflecting and shielding curses in turn, the ones that couldn't be blocked either dodged or stopped with conjured debris.

 _Where the hell_ _ **are**_ _they?_ she thought as a minor cutting curse slipped by, carving a thin line across her hip. She didn't think she'd be able to hold out against this many people at once for much—

There was a low _boom_ , the explosion so forceful the ground teetered under her, unbalancing her just as she'd been deflecting a bone-shattering curse — she just managed to twist the failed deflection into a barely-adequate shield instead, the thing shattering on contact. Even despite the near miss, she couldn't help her lips twisting into a smirk.

If any of the Death Eaters saw and were wondering what was so funny they didn't have long to worry about it: curses started raining on them from behind only seconds later.

But Ellie wasn't one to lay back and leave it to everyone else. Even as the room descended into chaos, Order and Death Eater skipping back and forth in a dizzying dance of curse and countercurse, Ellie switched from defensive magic to offensive. She sniped at Death Eaters wherever she had a good shot, firing with blasting curses, and severing curses, and piercing curses, anything she could think of that had a narrow field of effect, unlikely to accidentally hit someone on her team, but quite likely to actually do some good. Dumbledore's bootlickers had a nasty habit of not putting people down permanently when they really should. She saw Severus with them, that limp he'd had for near on a year now quite distinctive — Ellie was still trying not to feel too guilty about that — so at least one other person around would be thinking with their head instead of their heart.

'Ellie!' The sharp shout of her name startled her for a second, but she felt the incoming magic she instantly recognised as her godfather's the second before he appeared at her side. Sirius wrapped an arm tight around her shoulders even as he raised a shield with the other, the gleaming, multicoloured barrier bowing under the pressure from a powerful blasting curse. 'Don't you scare me like that _ever again_!'

'Yes, I'll make sure not to get _stunned in the back and abducted_ next time. How silly of me.' Despite the situation they were in, despite the sharp sarcasm on her voice, she was still smiling.

Sirius dropped his shield charm, cast a shockingly powerful piercing curse at the Death Eater who'd just tried to kill them. They managed to dodge in time, but the curse cut a crater in the stands a foot wide and several deep. Damn. Okay, scratch that, maybe there were _two_ others here. He was a Black though, not surprising. 'Let's not let Marlie know you let someone hex you in the back,' he said, chuckling a little under his breath.

Ellie rolled her eyes. Yeah, she'd just be insufferable after that, wouldn't she.

'Was that your work we found in that bloody spinning room?'

'It spins? I mean, yes. _Pugiūmbrae ningentēs_.'

She felt Sirius wince. 'Yeah, let's _not_ let Dumbledore know about that one, either.'

'Probably a good—' Sirius's arm loosened its grip around her a bit, but only to drag her with him to the ground, the two of them barely ducking under two killing curses simultaneously crossing through where they'd been standing a second ago. 'Okay,' she said, pushing herself to her feet again. 'Talk later, kill Death Eaters now.'

'Try to hold back on the dark curses.' Sirius casually deflected a blasting curse headed for his chest, sending it barrelling down just in front of the Veil, carving a gaping fissure into the stone and blowing little chunks of rock everywhere. He fired back with an overpowered cutting curse, the Death Eater narrowly avoiding the arc of blue-purple light. 'Dumbledore always comes complaining to me when you do that.'

With a deft twist of her wand, Ellie conjured a bit of ice encasing the foot and ankle of the Death Eater Sirius had just missed. While the idiot stumbled, Ellie shot off a variant of a piercing curse she knew was all but unblockable. It slipped right through the basic shield charm the Death Eater reflexively cast, carving deep into his chest with a thick splatter of blood. 'Does that one count?'

Sirius just snorted.

That was about when things got weird.

This incident was already an enormous embarrassment. Fourteen Death Eaters, and they hadn't even been able to _catch_ her before reinforcements arrived. She was positive she'd even killed at least one or two, by herself. That was pretty pathetic. Once the Order showed up, there was really no point in them staying. So the Death Eaters were sounding the retreat. Though they had someone making a distraction.

Some time ago, explaining the natural variation in raw power present in mages, Severus had listed off who he believed to be the ten most powerful currently in Britain. He'd given Tom the number one spot, Dumbledore a very close second. Dumbledore still matched or even edged out Tom in a fight due to greater experience, greater theoretical knowledge. He'd rated himself...sixth or seventh? Ellie couldn't remember exactly.

Number three was Bellatrix Lestrange. Were she not so irrationally devoted to Tom, she could be a Dark Lady in her own right. _Easily_.

The air shook as dark magic thrummed across it, filling Ellie with an odd sense of falling, as though the ground were tilting, dropping out from under her. The air around Lestrange, about a third the way around the room from Ellie, turned thick and dark, tendrils of sickening blackness extending out into the air around her, spinning and grasping around the room. Severus had told her about this spell: it was essentially a rotting curse that could be used on an entire room full of people at once, but was designed to pass over anyone Marked with no effect. Very few people were powerful enough to cast it, and it _was_ blockable, so it was usually only used as a distraction, for the most part to cover retreats. She assumed that was why Lestrange was using it now, since she already noticed Death Eaters break away from their opponents, flooding for the exits.

She had no time to pursue them — just because it was blockable didn't mean it was _easily_ blockable. With a flourish, she summoned all the Order members within a dozen metres of her, yanking Sirius, Dora, Vance, and Shacklebolt over to sprawl at her feet. She drew up a sense of defiance within herself, reaching for the most unambiguously defensive feelings she could find, absolutely _refusing_ to let the people under her protection be harmed, the incantation falling over her lips as fast as she could possibly speak it. ' _Lūx-abluēns ad-fidēlēs-tuōs-dēscendās et-hanc-noctem-suffōcantem-ablēgēs!'_

She grit her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut, at the nauseating flare of light magic rising within her, clawing at her chest and her throat. It was so sickening it was making her dizzy, and she was rather glad she'd never made it to dinner, since it lessened the chance she'd vomit all over the place somewhat. Ugh, she hated casting light magic. But despite her stomach, head, and the joints of her wand hand viciously protesting, her magic obeyed her, twisting into a crystalline hemisphere of rainbow light surrounding herself and the four Order members she'd rescued slowly teetering to their feet, the magic singing and dancing on the air around them.

Well, Dora and Shacklebolt probably would have been able to save themselves, they'd just gotten caught in her summoning charm as well. Sirius _might_ have managed it, but she'd almost certainly just saved Vance's life. Maybe she'd stop muttering about her being a rising Dark Lady now. Doubtful, but she could hope.

The tendrils of blackness on the air struck against her shield, one after another, light flaring white-gold with each strike. She'd barely gotten the shield up in time, damn stupid incantation, and now she only stared, squinting to see past the blinding light, the storm of darkness, a few more glowing defenses here and there. Severus was Marked, he was the only one who didn't need to defend himself, she knew he had to be moving in on Lestrange any second—

At the center of the black a hole suddenly opened, reality reasserting itself, as Lestrange dodged a spell of some kind. By the lines scored into the ground a short distance away, probably that dark slicing curse Severus liked so much. Ellie tried not to be too impatient as the tendrils of black slowly dissipated, watching Severus and Lestrange skip back and forth across the room, the air flaring and crashing with curse after curse. She hated having to wait.

There, that would do. She dropped the shield, ducked under the hand Sirius was halfway through putting on her shoulder, probably intending to hold her back. Wouldn't be having any of that. She stepped into shadows, reappearing on the other side of the room. Only to find a torrent of purple and black inches from crashing over her head, her skin already itching from standing so close to such powerful dark magic. Whoops. She disappeared back into shadows before the spell could hit her, barely, appearing again a short distance away.

Damn, Severus and Lestrange were moving so _fast_. They were skipping back and forth across the room, standing in one spot only long enough to shoot off a curse, release a flood of elemental magic, deflect or shield where appropriate, before vanishing again, appearing half across the room, back and forth and all around, a dizzying dance of deadly magic. She thought she'd been getting pretty good by now, but she couldn't even _follow_ this shite. No idea how they were doing that.

But, then, she didn't really need to follow it. A quick thought and a flick of her wand was all she needed to cover the entire floor in a few inches of ice. Severus and Lestrange were immediately locked in place — along with anyone else still stupid enough to be in the room, but they were only in the way by this point. She paused only long enough to check where everyone was quick before stepping through shadows again, reappearing somewhere she had an angle so there was no one behind Lestrange.

She drew as much of her power as would obey her out from her centre, down her arm, mixing it with all the hatred she could summon. She fueled it with every memory she had of the Dursleys, every memory of the worst arseholes in Slytherin, every memory of the self-righteous, incompetent _fucks_ who had the shameless gall to criticise her for acting when they did nothing. Focusing that power and that fury on Lestrange, wishing with absolutely everything she had that Lestrange would just _die_ , that she would cease to exist, that nobody would ever have to see the insane, evil bitch again.

And, for the third time in her life, Ellie cast the Killing Curse.

Most Dark Arts, she honestly couldn't understand why they were illegal. There was no real justification for it. Some of them were dangerous, sure, but anyone with a drop of creativity could kill people easily with second-year charms. Far as she could tell, the whole "dark magic corruption" thing people talked about was a myth, it didn't really happen. There was no rational reason for most illegal magics to be banned.

At the least, though, she could understand why people had chosen to ban the Killing Curse. But for one simple reason, one people usually didn't talk about. As the familiar spell sprung from her wand, moving as something between fire and lightning, glowing a sharp, brilliant green, Ellie felt _good_. There was no other word for it. It felt _amazing_. All that rage, all that hatred, vanished in an instant, replaced with relief, with almost ecstatic _joy_. She'd successfully hit someone with it once before — it was possible she didn't take betrayal well — and the few moments after she'd felt simply the very best she ever, ever had. Fierce, wild pleasure crashing over her in an inexorable wave, almost like an intense orgasm but a hundred times better. (Not that she'd make that particular comparison with Daphne, she had _some_ tact.) Nothing compared, nothing at all.

So, she could understand why people would want to get rid of the thing. That didn't mean it wasn't just plain useful sometimes.

Unfortunately, Lestrange saw it coming soon enough, and leaned out of the way, the emerald fire falling against the floor some distance behind her, instantly sublimating the ice into hissing steam, charring a line of black into the stone. The next instant she released herself, popped away again.

Dammit.

And Severus and Lestrange were off again, popping around, the whole room vibrating with explosion after explosion, ice trailing up the walls before being blasted away again, the air filled with lightning and shadow and fire. Ellie tried to contribute, and she thought she did a little bit, maybe. Lestrange was just so fast! Clearly, she had a lot of work to do if she wanted to have any chance at all against Tom in the near future. At the very least, she didn't think she was making it harder on Severus at all. She could defend herself just fine, even if she wasn't doing any damage, good enough with shadow-walking or deflecting or shielding that she never got tagged, and she managed to stay out of the way. She just didn't feel she was helping very much.

And she wouldn't be able to not-help for very much longer. She was getting rather tired. And her wand arm was really starting to _hurt_.

It took maybe two seconds.

A long, thick strand of black and red was trailing from Lestrange's wand, whipping through the air all around her, lashing out at Severus and herself — mostly Severus, honestly. She knew this spell: on contact, it forced a large amount of kinetic energy into whatever it hit, crushing and cracking that which wouldn't move, sending unbound objects or people flying. A ring about three metres out from Lestrange was dense with cracks, shattered from intermittent strikes from the whip, the bench immediately next to her reduced to rubble and dust. This was rather easy to dodge, it moved slow enough it wasn't a problem, but the bitch kept dodging out of the way of anything she and Severus sent back at her, in a few cases slapping curses away with her bare hand. _God_ , couldn't this bitch _just d—_

And Lestrange suddenly vanished. Ellie had magical sensitivity enough to spot where she was almost immediately, a few metres behind her now. But the whip of dark magic was still there, floating in the air. A sustained spell, she knew it was. The moment Lestrange reappeared from shadows, the whip snapped into motion, racing with startling speed to rejoin her wand. There was just one problem with that.

Both she and Severus were in the way.

It happened far too fast, too unexpected for Ellie to react. Even as rock shook and shattered and screamed around her, a clash of discordant magic and a shout from Severus's direction, Ellie reflexively ducked away from the incoming magic, threw up an instinctive shield charm. The whip crashed down on the shield, pushing against it.

And the world around her was moving, the room sliding sideways in an incomprehensible blur, and then her leg was exploding with agony and as her knee hit _something_ , her vision going white and useless as she felt the scream clawing at her own throat, and the indistinct shapes she could see through the whiteness were tilting and spinning dizzily, she couldn't make any sense of it—

For a moment, an infinite moment that passed in a single breath, all was blackness, a blackness so dark the white pain was dimmed away, blackness pressing against her eyes, against every inch of her skin, clenching her damaged knee hard enough she wanted to scream, but the air wouldn't come, she couldn't move, all was tightness and nothingness and an indescribable sense of falling through everything, an occasional jolt vibrating against the steel holding her in place, as though striking against something in the blackness, one impact, another, another.

—and then her eyes were dazzled with blue sky and white clouds, her ears drowned with the sound of roaring wind, yanking almost painfully at her hair, very painfully at her left leg. And then green. And then blue.

Thoughts turned sluggish by the continuing throb in her leg, Ellie slowly realised she was outside, very high above the ground.

There was no way that was good.

With careful movements, trying to use her left leg as little as possible, Ellie slowly reoriented. She couldn't even say how she managed that, she didn't really think about it. Avian animaga instincts? She didn't know. But somehow, bit by bit, she stopped her dizzying tumble, ending with her body angled perpendicular to the ground, head tilted straight downward. Oh, good, she was still rather high up, the wash of green below still distant enough to be indistinct, mottled colours, the shapes of individual trees unnoticeable. Alright.

She took a short moment, wind pulling at her hair, roaring in her ears, stinging her watering eyes, to regather her breath, regather herself. This wasn't going to be easy.

Holding her arms tight against her body, Ellie cast off her human shell, traded hair and skin for feather and scale. She squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth as the transformation first touched her injured leg, her probable bone fracture turning the usually painless process agonising. But it only lasted as long as the transformation itself, going back to the dull throb from before, tucking her legs close to her body even ending the previous jerks and yanks. Ellie let the pressure in her beak ease, opened her eyes again, third eyelid immediately slamming closed against the wind.

Okay. Good. The deep green under her had turned a deeper green, a few places slightly more toward blueish-green, but she was used to that. And she could actually make out individual trees now — even individual _leaves_ , if she really looked closely — but she thought she still had plenty of time. Bird eyes were just weird like that.

The problem was speed. It only took a bit over ten seconds to reach more or less terminal velocity, by the time she'd been ready to change she'd already been falling seriously fucking fast. She'd noticed before opening her wings after high dives would pull at her shoulders like a bitch. But she'd never tried at these kinds of speeds, and she _really_ didn't want to accidentally dislocate anything.

Changing would have helped already: birds are rather less dense than humans, she had a lower terminal velocity like this, she should already be slowing down. But not enough. Carefully, moving only the slightest bit, she twitched at her tail — and if that hadn't been weird getting used to, didn't originally have useable muscles there — tilting the feathers somewhat above her head. She let the tearing wind pull her tail back straight, compensating with another push downward, the pressure slowing her slightly. And she did it again, and again, pushing a little further each time, nudging her speed down more and more.

When she thought that would do, she pushed up, and this time held steady against the wind yanking at her. The ground under her immediately tilted, her body canting around until she was held at roughly a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Which was good — she had a larger effective surface area this way, it'd slow her down further. The wind was tugging at her feathers a bit harder than before, fingers clawing painfully at her leg and yanking on her wings, she had to strain to keep them tight against her body. Over the next few seconds, the clawing weakened noticeably as she slowed. The wind still felt hard and violent against her, but...it didn't seem _that_ much worse than she'd had before. Maybe this would do.

It would have to do pretty soon. Those trees were starting to get worryingly close.

She tried to do it gradually, first loosening up her wrists, for lack of a better term, allowing the wind to meet the edges of her wings. Which was very nearly a stupid idea — the uneven force against her almost sent her spinning, that could have ended _very_ badly. She barely managed to balance again, and once she was stable decided, fuck it, and threw caution to the winds.

Ha. Sort of made her feel corny, but she found that almost funny.

She threw her arms wide, letting her wings take the full brunt of the wind pushing against her. And oh, _fuck_ , that _seriously hurt_ , dull, constant pressure pulling at her arms so hard she thought they might pop out of their sockets, she could almost _hear_ the muscles and tendons tear and strain against the force. But she just clenched her beak again, narrowed her eyes, and ignored it.

It might fucking _hurt_ , but it wasn't going to kill her. _Not_ doing it, on the other hand, most likely would.

It didn't take too long before she'd slowed down completely. Well, not _completely_ — she was still flying rather fast, the trees and bushes and grass below her flicking by with impressive speed, but it was a normal _I'm-flying-like-fucking-crazy_ fast, not a _holy-fucking-shite-this-is-bad-I'm-gonna-die_ fast. Almost moving entirely forward now, and not straight down, which was perfect.

And not even a sarcastic perfect. It was starting to occur to her just how close she'd come to dying just then, which was not a thought she was comfortable entertaining.

She brought her speed down gradually, mostly just letting herself glide the energy off, searching for a convenient break in the trees. She didn't want to try landing on a branch with a broken leg, no thanks. Finally she found a gap in the branches, tilted her wings to send herself arcing into it, spiralling down toward the ground, hard dirt interspersed with patches of grass and bushes. There, that spot would do, clear enough she wouldn't fall on anything.

Coming low to the ground, she backflapped a few times, and Ellie cast off her avian shell, grasping for the human one again. She grit her teeth as the change swept over her broken leg, somehow managing to hold the scream inside, even as her head filled with nauseating whiteness. One foot came to the ground, and she bled off the rest of her speed with a couple more hops. Doing her best not to jostle her leg too much, but still wincing every second or so as incandescent agony crawled up her spine, Ellie bent toward the ground, after far too long finally managing to lay herself out on the dirt.

And she simply lay there, trying to catch her breath.

What the _fuck_ just happened?

* * *

[there's no such thing as a fucking philosopher's stone] — _True. People do think there is, but there isn't. Long story._

 _Imperitāns — Latin participle of a verb meaning "command/rule", which is obviously imperius in canon. This isn't an incantation, by the way, just the name._

 _Austre furēns, terram inundā — Latin, something like "Raging Auster, drown the earth," Auster being the Roman god of the southerly wind. Rather powerful area-effect lightning magic. If it seems familiar, the same spell appeared in chapter 13 of TRW, though Ellie shortened the incantation significantly here._

Rḗtte (Ancient Greek: ῥῆττε) — _Imperative of verb meaning to tear, shatter, or break._

Pugiūmbrae ningite — _Latin, spliced together from "dagger", "shadow", and the second-person plural imperative of "to snow". The_ ningentēs _later on is the name of the spell, as a noun, instead of the incantation._

Saepem glaciālem profundam — _Latin, something like "thick icy fence" in the accusative, object of a dropped verb. I meant to put the quotation mark where I did, Ellie only said the last word out loud._

Cumfulmine lacerā — _Latin, something like "tear apart / destroy with lightning"_

Severus's limp and Ellie's guilt — _Don't know if this will ever come up again, might as well explain. Ellie's time at Hogwarts is somewhat different than canon!Harry. After Ellie and Severus avoiding each other in first year, they actually started talking in second year, and by third year were using each other's given names. By fourth year, it was common knowledge Ellie was Severus's favourite student, and he her favourite professor. Common enough Voldemort knew. Soon after his resurrection, he ordered Severus to bring Ellie to him at the earliest opportunity. He refused. He barely escaped with his life, and now has a permanent limp from a dark curse he was hit with._

[Lūx abluēns, ad fidēlēs tuōs dēscendās, et hanc suffōcantem noctem ablēgēs!] — _Latin, supposed to be "cleansing light, descend upon your faithful, and banish this suffocating night."_

* * *

 _So, this exists. "Ellie" is a not-so-nice Slytherin GWL who is also the main character of a different fic in my head. The typical falling-through-the-Veil thing, yes, and it isn't clear from the end of this chapter — probably won't be for a couple chapters, actually — but Ellie fell into Remnant. Yeah, RWBY crossover, I did that. Most of the worldbuilding will be recognisable (though with details of **how** shit works, which was obviously not in the original), but the plot is almost entirely original. Oh, also, Ellie pretty much replaces Jaune, he doesn't exist in this AU. __Because, real talk for a second here,_

 _Fuck Jaune.  
~Wings_


	3. Her Mother's Love

**_Her Mother's Love_**

* * *

Hazel Potter ran. She didn't know what she'd been thinking.

Dudley's gang had been doing what they usually did: teasing and beating on kids smaller than them. Hazel had been doing what she usually did: hiding somewhere unseen or inaccessible. This time, she'd been high up in a tree at the edge of the schoolyard, which had the advantage of being not out of bounds, so she wouldn't get in trouble with the teachers later, within sight, so Dudley's gang wouldn't feel the need to take their inability to find her out on her later, and somewhere they couldn't get to without risking her stomping on their hands as they climbed. She'd actually done that before, a previous day, to prove the point.

She'd been waiting out the lunch break, looking forward to the relative safety of the classroom. When she'd noticed Dudley's gang were starting in on a new target. It'd taken a second for Hazel to recognise her, a girl in their year; she knew her from the long blonde plait of hair. Honestly, she didn't even remember her name. She just knew she wasn't mean to her. Most of the other kids, they avoided her at best, or teased her (verbally, for the most part) at worst — Dudley had a habit of retaliating against people who were nice to her. She didn't blame them, no one wanted to get hit. This girl was one of the few who were nice anyway. She didn't go out of her way, so much, that would be risky. But she'd smiled at her a couple times. Once, a couple weeks ago, when she'd "forgotten" to bring her lunch, she'd given Hazel her apple. She was nice.

Before she'd even realised what she'd been doing, her feet had already been on the ground, a chunk of bark already winging across the air toward Dudley's head, the traces of mouldering wood on her hand telling herself, yes, she _had_ been the one to throw that.

Hazel was running, away from the girl, all the other kids, Dudley's gang pounding at her heels. She ducked around the corner of the building, darting through the little alley between class hall and cafeteria. She had maybe a couple seconds. She planted her foot on a low ledge in the wall, tried to push herself up, but her knees faltered. She stumbled back down to ground level, nearly running headfirst into the dumpster in front of her she'd been meaning to jump and climb over. It blocked the end of the little alley entirely, she would have been able to get away if she'd gotten over quick, but they'd catch up now.

And she was so _tired_ already. She had even been eating the last couple days — not a lot, sure, but when did she ever? She'd been eating enough that she wasn't constantly dizzy and weak like she sometimes got. But apparently not enough that she could run for more than a minute, not enough that she could climb just a _little bit_. She considered trying to climb up without the leaping start she'd planned on, but she knew it was pointless. Her breath was already coming hard and fast, her fingers were trembling so badly she didn't know if she could hold on. Dudley's gang would be here any second now. And she was trapped, out of sight of the teachers.

She felt like crying. She didn't let herself — crying was dangerous — but she felt like it. How could she be so _stupid_? The girl would have been fine! The teachers wouldn't have let it go too far, and it would have been over in a couple minutes! But now Dudley and his idiot friends were going to hurt her again. And then Dudley would tell Uncle Vernon, who'd also probably hurt her again, and lock her in the cupboard, deny her food for who knew how long this time. No one was going to help her. Not that anyone ever did. And it was all her fault this time. Not that she was convinced it was ever anything but.

She needed to get out of here. She needed help. But then, nobody ever helped her, did they? When the Dursleys had abruptly gotten worse halfway through year one — they hadn't liked her getting better marks than Dudley — she'd tried to do something about it. She'd tried telling the teachers what was going on, but she'd been too scared to be too direct, and nothing had come of it. She'd told a couple kids, hoping they'd tell their parents who would then tell the right people, but they hadn't believed her, and soon stopped talking to her anyway. When they'd learned in school how the post worked, she'd even sent a letter to the police. She didn't know what had come of that, but considering Vernon had hurt her, then set _very_ strict rules about exactly what she was and wasn't to tell other people, it clearly hadn't done any good. Nobody ever helped her.

But she couldn't help begging in her head, pleading, praying. She needed help.

She jumped at the sound of approaching footsteps, her heart leaping into—

...

The world snapped back into focus, suddenly enough she fell to her hands and knees. She looked around, blinking to herself in confusion.

She was on the roof of the cafeteria.

How... How had she gotten up here? She didn't remember...

She just got more confused, looking at the roof just in front of her. It wasn't all the same solid black colour. Part of it was stained a deep, vibrant green. Colour shaped into what were clearly letters. She lifted her hands, revealing the whole word. _Tonight_.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the...message? What was happening? Had someone saved her? Plucked her out of the alley and put her up here? Told her they would...meet? Tonight?

She wasn't sure if she should be thrilled or terrified.

She blinked, and the message was gone.

* * *

She felt like crying, but she didn't let herself. Crying was dangerous.

Vernon had been told about the appearing-on-the-roof incident, and he hadn't been happy. But he'd gone rather light on her, actually. Sure, he'd dragged her into her cupboard pretty roughly — her arm burned from wrist to shoulder, extra stinging a little worse in a couple places. And she'd be locked in here, excluding when she had to go to school, for some weeks. And she'd likely not be eating for a couple days. But he hadn't really hit her at all. Could have been much worse.

But still she felt like crying. She always did, in the first hour or so after the cupboard door was slammed and locked. When her isolation was so fresh, the loneliness so much more acute.

She had no idea how long she lay in her bed, trying not to cry.

...

She blinked. She was sitting up, her back against the side wall, legs folded on her bed. Spread across her lap was one of her scraggy old notebooks, a mangled pen in her fingers. It was dark in her room, but not so dark she couldn't read.

 _Hello, Hazel. I'm sorry_.

Just that. It wasn't in her handwriting. It looked like a grown-up's, all smooth and regular, curved and loopy enough she had the impression it was a woman's. But...had she just written that? She couldn't write nearly that pretty.

She had absolutely no idea what was happening.

But, since she had nothing better to do, she decided to write back. Tongue slipping between her lips — it was really awkward writing legibly in this position, doing homework was impossible half the time — she wrote a response on the line under the mystery message. _Who are you? What are you sorry for?_

It was the strangest thing. The instant she pulled her hand away, everything flickered, for only an instant. Like the momentary darkness of a blink, but slightly...different. Like her whole body, her whole brain, all of it blinked, not just her eyes. When she focused again, words had appeared on the page under hers, again in that unfamiliar handwriting. _I'm sorry it took so long for me to wake up. Your mother sent me to protect you. But I was asleep until only about a month ago. I've only worked out how to help today._

Hazel frowned down at the page. Her mother had sent... Erm, she was going to think of whoever this was as a _she_ , since the handwriting was girly enough to be. Her mother had sent her? And what _was_ she? How was she writing to her like this? This was weird. Maybe she really shouldn't—

She suddenly got a very strange suspicion. Whoever-it-was said she'd only worked out how to help today. Today, when she'd somehow gone from the ground to the roof. A message saying _tonight_ — and here she was, somehow communicating with...something. Had... The thought was so strange she could barely put it to words. Had someone saved her? Had someone actually done something to help her?

She had no idea what to think about that. But she might as well confirm if it was true or not first. _Did you put me on the roof?_

The world flickered again. _Yes. I healed your arm, too. I had to wait until I was sure your mean relatives were done for the night first. I'm sorry._

It was only at that instant Hazel realised her arm didn't hurt anymore. She couldn't stop it. It was just too much. No one had ever _helped_ her before. A light pressure rose from her chest into her throat, water gathered in her eyes. She wiped at her cheeks as tears slipped onto them, shaking her head to herself. Now wasn't the time. She had to figure out what was going on, but first she should be polite. She knew, for other people who weren't the Dursleys, politeness was important. She didn't want to make the only person to ever help her mad. _Thank you very much. I really really apreshiate it._

Flicker. When she came back, she felt...warm. Like she was wrapped up in a tight, comfortable blanket, holding her snug, settled right in front of a fire. Warm and soft. The feeling faded after a moment, the warmth and the slight pressure that carried it slowly lifting away. She looked down at the newest message. _You don't have to thank me, sweetheart. I have a lot to make up for. But it was very nice of you to say._

She hesitated for just a moment. She wasn't sure if what she wanted to ask was rude. If whoever-it-was would get mad. But she kind of had to know. Not _had_ to, she guessed, but she probably should. _Who are you?_

 _The answer to that question is long and complicated. You'll understand soon, it'll just take a while to get there. There's a lot I have to tell you. If you need a break to get a snack or drink or use the toilet tell me._

Hazel frowned at that. She couldn't mean that, could she? _I can't get out of the cubberd._

 _I can unlock it. Before you go to sleep tonight, we're going to go out at least once. We need to steal some money, to get you a real meal tomorrow._

A sudden thrill shot through Hazel, somewhere between ecstatic excitement and terror. On the one hand, she'd absolutely _love_ to be able to get in and out of her cupboard as she wanted. She'd _love_ to be able to get herself food and things without having to wait for her aunt and uncle to give the scraps they allowed. But on the other, she just knew she'd be punished horribly if they found her out and about, even _more_ horribly if they discovered she was stealing from them. But, honestly, she wasn't sure how things could get much worse. What did it matter? _That sounds good, if we're carefull._

 _They won't notice a thing. Now, while we wait for them to get to sleep, I have a lot to tell you. I'll start with something that's very, very important. Very big. Maybe even the biggest part._

Hazel noticed she hadn't actually said the thing. Maybe she was waiting to make the point that it was so big, you couldn't look at it all at once? She didn't know. She also noticed they were at the bottom of the page, but she didn't think that had anything to do with it. Whoever-it-was had put the book in her hands and opened it in the first place, so she doubted that made any difference to her. All the same, she unfolded the notebook, turned the page, folded it down again.

Just as she was wondering if she should say anything, the world flickered, and words abruptly appeared. _Petunia lied to you. Your aunt lied to you so much it'd be quicker to list the things she didn't lie about than the things she did. Your mother really was named Lily. Your father really was named James. They really did die on Hallowe'en, 1981. As far as I can tell, someone really did leave you on their doorstep without even asking, but I have no way of checking to be sure. Nearly everything else they ever told you was a lie._

There was a little gap, a line skipped, and the words continued. _For one thing, your name isn't Hazel._ She blinked at that, so surprised she couldn't read on for a couple seconds. _Hazel is a middle name. Your name is Elizabeth Augusta Hazel Potter. Your aunt told you another very big lie about yourself. You are_ _not_ _a freak. You are special, but there's nothing unnatural about it. It's just the way some people are. You, Elizabeth Augusta Hazel Potter, are a mage. That means you can do magic._

 _Yes, magic is real. She lied about that too. Magic is how I got you onto the roof. Magic is how I healed your arm. And magic is how I'm talking to you right now. With a little bit of time, and a little bit of work, you can do magic too. And with more time, and a lot more work, you can become good enough at it that no one will ever be able to hurt you ever again._

Hazel couldn't think. When she got to the end of the words, her head just went white. White and full of noisy static, like when you turn the telly to a channel that doesn't have anything on it. Her breath had turned fast and high again, but not because she'd been running too much. She just... She _really_... She wasn't sure if this magic stuff was real, honestly. Sure, magic things seemed to be happening but...it was still so hard to believe! It was a very strange idea. But...if it was...she wanted it very bad. If it could get her away from the Dursleys, if it could make it so she didn't have to be hungry or cold or hurt ever again, she wanted it very bad.

She forced her gasping into a single long, shaky breath, gripped the pen again. _Can you teach me?_

 _Yes, I can, and I will. But later. First, we have to get you away from your aunt and uncle. I have a plan. If it goes the way I expect, after a couple weeks you'll never have to see them again. Then I'll teach you. It will have to be our secret, but I promise I'll teach you whatever you like._

She wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. So instead she just wrote. _You can get me out?_

 _Yes, I think so. We'll be sending some letters to your cousin. And then, at the right moment, we're going to arrange an incident._

She wasn't entirely sure what that meant. But she guessed it didn't really matter. Whoever-it-was would probably explain before too long — she expected she'd be up a long time tonight, her new magical pen pal explaining all kinds of things. _I have other cousins?_

 _Yes. This is another thing your aunt and uncle lied to you about. Your parents were not unemployed drunks. Like you, they were also mages. They were very powerful, and knew many other powerful people. Your mother was born to non-magical parents, but she was very, very gifted. She was sort of like those kids you hear about that graduate from university when they should be barely out of primary, but with magic. She was also very smart, and very nice, and very pretty, so everybody liked her. So she has a lot of friends out there, who would try to help you if you asked. She also has distant cousins who are mages, but they live in France, and are too far away to help._

Again, the words continued in another paragraph. _But your father didn't have non-magical parents. His parents were mages. And their parents. And their parents. And theirs, and theirs, and theirs, back for hundreds of years. The Potters are a very old magical family, and a very important one, which we'll talk about later. You have living family through them, living family who liked your father far more than Petunia liked your mother. They'll want to help you just because of that. I think something must have happened to your godparents, so it's them we'll be going to._

And she felt like crying again. She'd _never_ heard anyone ever say anything nice about her parents. She guessed she still hadn't, but she'd read it, which was almost as good. Honestly, she really had no reason to think any of this was true. She'd been told the opposite so many times. But she _wanted_ it to be true. It would be so much nicer if it was true. _I have godparents?_ She only had the vaguest idea of what godparents were, she'd certainly never thought to think she had any.

 _Yes, you do. Alice Longbottom and Sirius Black. Alice was your mother's best friend. Sirius is a cousin of your father's, but they were so close they were like brothers. Something must have happened to them, or you'd be with one of them instead of here. Or someone could have put you here without telling them. Which looks likely, since there are other people you should have gone to before here. But let's not worry about that right now. There's nothing we can do about it yet._

Hazel frowned at that. That didn't sound good. Anyone who sent her here could only be bad. Suddenly, the idea of magic wasn't quite so nice: she didn't like the thought of a magic Vernon. _Can't you use magic to find out what hapened?_

 _Like anything else, magic has rules. I know magic very well, so I can bend those rules a little bit sometimes, but I can't break them. And on top of those rules, what I can do right now is very limited. I don't have a body of my own, you see. Right now I'm writing to you by borrowing your body for just a little bit. Since you can do magic, I can also borrow your magic at the same time. That's how I got you onto the roof, and healed your arm. I know a lot of magic, but since you're still little, I can't do big magic without hurting you. Just little things. I remember things that happened before that Hallowe'en, but nothing after, and from now on I only see what you see. I can't go somewhere else to try to find out what happened since. Well, maybe I could, but I don't want to leave you here alone now that I can help. Keeping you safe is more important than knowing what happened six years ago._

Okay. That was...sort of creepy. She didn't really like the idea of... _something_ stealing her body. It was just weird. But... Well, there wasn't anything she could do about it, was there? When it happened, she didn't even really notice it. And whoever-it-was had been nice so far. She didn't know if she could trust her. Whatever she was. She didn't even know if she was telling the truth about her mother sending her. But she _wanted_ to trust her, she liked the idea of her, and that'd have to be good enough for now. She considered simply asking what exactly she was, but she doubted she'd get an answer. Or, at least, she doubted she'd understand the answer. _Okay. What's the plan to get me out?_

 _Your grandmother, your father's mother, was named Dorea Black. The Blacks are a mage family even older and more important than the Potters. Most of the Blacks are not very nice people, and I wouldn't know how to get a letter to most of the ones who are nice. Except one. Your father has an older cousin named Andromeda. She married a man who has non-mage parents, like your mother. Last I heard, he recently became a solicitor. He works on both the mage and non-mage sides. I remember the address of the non-mage firm he works for. We'll send letters to him there._

She thought of a problem after a second. _What if he doesn't work there any more?_

 _They'll have his home address, or some other way to reach him. If he isn't there, they'll get it to him. There is a small chance they won't, but I have a second plan if that happens. That one just might be a little harder to get right. The first plan is better. You'll have to write the letter. It needs to be in your handwriting. I can give you advice, though._

That sounded like she was saying Hazel should write the letter right now. She could do that, she guessed. She turned to a new page, and with plenty of prompting from whoever-it-was, she wrote out a letter to someone she'd never met before. It was only the second letter she'd ever written anyway, and the other one was to people she'd never met either, but that wasn't the point, really. It was a simple thing. Whoever-it-was had her lie a little bit, saying she got the address from a box of her mother's old things in the attic. It was mostly just asking questions about what her parents were like, saying some basic things about her own life. She was told to downplay just how awful it was by quite a bit — which was just fine with her, she'd feel weird about telling the truth. Enough to make them concerned, the mysteriously-appearing messages said, but not enough to completely go crazy. Which was all they needed right now. She had her finish up the letter, then fold it up. Hazel went back to the notebook, wrote, _I'll need a thing to put it in. Forget what they're called_. Really, she couldn't remember how to spell it, but a little lie was better than messing it up so badly whoever-it-was ended up confused.

 _Envelope. I'll pick one up at the same time I'm getting the money. It feels like they're all in bed now, but let's wait a couple more minutes to make sure they're asleep._

Alright. As long as they were still waiting, she could ask a question that'd been bothering her. She'd noticed it right away, and it hadn't really seemed that important at the time, but now it was gradually teasing at her more and more. Might as well ask. She was pretty sure whoever-it-was wouldn't mind questions. She was nice. _I have a question._

 _Go ahead, Hazel. You can ask me anything you like._

She had to smile a little bit at that. Partially just because she was relieved whoever-it-was wasn't annoyed like Petunia always got, but still. _You said you know things up to that Hallowe'en. And that my parents died that same day._ She'd listed that as a true thing Petunia had told her about her parents, even though she hadn't known that before. Which she wasn't pleased about; she'd actually liked Hallowe'en before, but now she suspected it wouldn't be as fun anymore. _I was just thinking that's funny. Why?_

There was a short pause before the world flickered out, words again appearing on the page. _It's very complicated, sweetheart. I don't think I could explain it in a way you would really understand. I'll try a little bit, though. See, your mother made me, on the night she died. A very bad mage was going to kill you. He was going to let her live, but instead she tricked him into killing her in just the right way so she could use the magic of her own life to give you very, very good magical armour. Think of it as a supercharged electrical fence around you, that bad magic can't get through._

 _The armour can't work very well on its own, so she made me so I could take care of it, and watch over and protect you. It all worked as she planned, except for me waking up so late. I'm sorry about that, I don't know why it took so long. Since I needed to know all kinds of magic to make sure the armour was working right, and to make sure nothing bad happened to you, and also needed to know lots of other things to better keep you safe, she made me very smart, as smart as herself, and put all of her memories in me. I don't know if anyone else could have done it. Your mother was very, very clever. And she loved you very, very,_ _very_ _much, too much to leave you without first giving you everything she could think of to keep you safe._

Hazel just stared at the page. She felt like crying again. Actually, she rather thought she _was_ crying. Her cheeks did seem to be strangely wet. Though, it almost felt like that part had happened during the flicker, when she hadn't been in control. She felt she was nearly crying now anyway, but it was almost like whoever-it-was had been too.

She read the part talking about her mother loving her very much a few extra times, just because.

This was very strange. That all almost sounded like her mother had...copied her entire brain into...whatever this thing was she'd given her. Which was... Well, then she might as well be...

She hesitated, her pen touching and lifting from the page a few times before she finally started writing. _Are you my mother?_

Another pause, a hesitation much like she'd had. Then, _What I'm about to tell you is as honest as I can possibly be. I said back at the beginning that explaining exactly what I am is long and complicated, and you'll come to understand later. What I didn't say is that I took some time, while working out this little trick I'm using to talk to you, trying to figure it out for myself. The magic that made me was something your mother made up, and she wasn't really sure what it would do. I've spent a month thinking about it off and on, but I haven't figured it out yet. It's very confusing being me._

 _To answer your question, Hazel, I don't know. I remember being her. And sometimes I feel like I am her. But I honestly don't know. I don't know what I am. I've decided it doesn't really matter, at least for now. You need help. I can help. And I want to. So I'm going to._

 _I'm sorry I can't give you the answer you want._

By the time she got to the last sentence, her eyes were so filled with tears, she could hardly even read the words. The words that she now knew must be in her mother's handwriting. She wasn't sad, not really. She felt light, and hot, and a little confused maybe, but not bad. Someone was here for her. For the first time ever. She couldn't see her, or touch her, but she was _here_. And she was basically her mother. Sort of. Had all of her memories. Was enough like her mother that she apparently wasn't entirely sure if she was really her mother or if she just sort of felt like it sometimes. So, Hazel wasn't the only one a little confused by the whole situation. That was nice, she guessed.

Without even thinking about it, she wrote, _I think "I don't know" is okay for now._ Because it was. This situation was very weird, maybe even completely insane. No "maybe" about that, really — if she told anyone about having her dead mother in her head they'd instantly think she was mad. But it was the closest she could ever remember to having a mother. To having someone who cared about her. So, honestly, it was good enough. It was better than good enough. It was amazing.

The world flickered out again. When it came back, there were no new words. Instead, that soft warmth had again fallen over her, this time lingering long after it'd faded previously. After a moment, Hazel realised what this was. She-who-was-her-mother-but-maybe-not-really had been killed, and didn't have a body of her own. But she could borrow Hazel's body, borrow her magic — which was apparently a thing she had.

She knew what this was. This was the closest thing her mother could give her to a hug.

This time, Hazel didn't even try to stop herself from crying.

* * *

Hazel was having the most peculiar day. But also possibly the best day ever.

She'd woken up in her cupboard to learn immediately she hadn't just been dreaming the previous night. Unlike most mornings, she'd woken up warm and comfortable, the magic — _magic!_ — done on her thin bed and pathetic blanket the previous night having done its job. The notebook, first few pages filled with two different handwriting styles alternating back and forth, had been right next to her pillow where she'd left it, the letter to Edward Tonks already sealed in an addressed envelope sitting on top. Reaching into her pillowcase, she'd immediately found the five twenty pound banknotes she'd hidden there the previous night.

She'd been absolutely shocked when maybe-her-mother-sort-of had gone on her thieving run, the world flickering out and back in for Hazel to find five paper Queen Elizabeths suddenly gazing up at her.

Remembering that her real first name was actually Elizabeth, she'd asked out of curiosity if she was named after the Queen. Turned out, her father had had an older sister named Elizabeth. She'd died about a year before Hazel had been born. Which was sad, she guessed, but still interesting to know.

Around midday, when Vernon had been off to work and Petunia and Dudley out who knew where, maybe-her-mother-sort-of had written it was time to go. Next thing Hazel had known, she'd been standing outside, about a block down the street from the house. She'd been completely unable to hold in her grin. She'd known already her-mother-maybe-kinda could get her out of the cupboard no problem — she'd even unlocked the door and left it hanging open for a little bit last night just to prove the point — but it was still just amazing to be out in the spring sun when she definitely shouldn't be able to. It was perfect.

Right now, she was sitting in a restaurant a few blocks away. At first, she'd been headed to a burger place Dudley often went to, but the-other-person-in-her-head-she-should-really-figure-out-a-way-to-refer-to somehow found out where she was going, and the world had flickered again and she'd found herself holding the notebook in front of her face, with a suggestion to go somewhere she could get something more substantial at. She'd just grinned, changed her mind to this other place a little further along that she'd seen but never been in — by the sound of the name, maybe Italian? She'd found the whole thing more funny than anything, really. She'd had her dead mother in her head for less than a day, and she was already nagging her.

She... Yes, she'd just refer to the other person in her head, who may or may not be her mother, as her mother, whether or not it was completely accurate. It was just easier, really.

And maybe she just liked thinking it a little bit.

But yes, the hostess and then the waitress had looked at her a little odd for being here on her own — or maybe that was her terrible ill-fitting clothes, honestly she didn't know — but they'd led her to a table and taken her order just fine. Okay, they'd confirmed she actually had money first, but they'd still done it. She was sitting at the table with her notebook open and sipping at a soda she'd half-expected her mother to prevent her from ordering by just taking her body over again, but here it was. She'd never had one before, and it was delicious, even if it had been making her a little cold — past tense, she suspected her mother had magicked the cold away during her turn writing — and this was so much fun, and she was practically bouncing in her seat with giddiness by this point.

Her mother had said that was probably the sugar. She was pretty sure it was just because this was clearly the best day ever.

The world flickered, which was far more obvious out here where she could see people suddenly jump from one spot to another as she blacked out for a few seconds, and she glanced down at the notebook to find her mother's handwriting again. _Before you get far too hyper or too stuffed with pasta to pay attention, I think I should explain the plan._

Right. The plan to get her away from the Dursleys. Her mother had had her drop the letter off to be mailed at a public postbox on the way — she said she'd make sure Petunia or Vernon didn't find any reply first — but she hadn't explained what they were actually doing. _Okay. What's the plan?_

 _I'll be honest with you, I think someone put you with Petunia's family, even though he shouldn't have been able to. There's magic all over the house, and I think he put it there, but I can't check what it does without him maybe finding out what I'm trying, and I don't want to risk that without knowing exactly why he did what he did. So. I expect Andi and Ted will write back before too long. We're going to write back to them, and they to us, back and forth a couple times. You'll keep telling them enough of how bad it is for you that they'll worry. They'll tell the one who put you here they're worried, and he'll probably ignore them. If he does check on you and decide to get you out, that works fine, but I don't expect him to. He hasn't even noticed anything's wrong yet, so I'm not exactly pleased with him right now._

 _After we got the Tonkses all good and worried, we'll sort of trick them into inviting themselves over to visit. I might have to fake a letter from Petunia to get that to work, we'll see. And then, when they're just about to arrive, we're going to make Petunia's whale of a husband angry. They'll walk in on Vernon being Vernon. I fully expect you'll sleep in their house that very night. And I doubt they'll ever let anyone send you back. They're good people. Your mother and father did want you to go to them if your godparents weren't available for a reason._

A cold rock sunk straight into Hazel's stomach. She didn't like this plan. In fact, she _hated_ this plan. She spent all her time trying to _avoid_ setting Vernon off, and here her mother wanted to do it on purpose! She took a long breath, trying to calm down. It couldn't be that bad, could it? Certainly her mother had to know what she was doing. _How angry?_

 _Very angry. I might borrow your magic again to make it worse_.

Okay. Yep. Bad plan. Very bad plan. She didn't like this. She didn't like this one bit.

She was just starting to lose control of her breathing when the world flickered again. When it came back, there was suddenly a plate of food in front of her — the absolutely largest plate of food she'd ever been offered in her entire life. She spent a long moment just staring at it, distracted from her earlier panic. Then she shook her head, looked for the notebook, knowing there'd be another message. There was.

 _Don't worry, sweetheart, it's going to be fine. I promise you, from now on, I'll do absolutely everything I can to spare you whatever suffering I can prevent. And there may be a lot I can't do for you right now, but there are still things I can. I do plan to provoke Vernon. I hope to make him angrier than he's probably ever been with you. He'll almost certainly get very mean. However, I am going to be the one doing it._ _Me_ _. There will be pain, but I'll be the one feeling it._ _Me_ _. Andi is a Healer. Whatever he does to you, I promise you won't feel a thing, and by the time you wake up it'll be like it never happened._

 _When the time comes, you'll close your eyes in that damn cupboard, and you'll wake up in the Tonkses' house, and it'll all be over. I'll take care of everything. Okay?_

Dammit. Stupid throat, stupid eyes. At least she didn't need to talk out loud to communicate at the moment, so her throat tightening up wasn't that big of a problem, but the tears blurring her vision were _really_ annoying. She wiped at her eyes with her left hand, trying to decide what to write. What could she possibly say? She had absolutely no idea how to express what she was feeling. Actually, she wasn't even entirely sure what she was feeling herself. Just... This was the best day ever. She was still somewhat scared of what exactly was going to happen with Uncle Vernon that day, but... It was still the best day ever.

Well. Might as well go simple. She started with, _Thank you_ , and then hesitated for the barest moment before adding, _Mum_. She tried not to wince. Not entirely sure saying that was a good idea. Last night, her mother (sort of?) had gone on that little rant about how she wasn't entirely sure who or what she was, she hadn't figured it out for herself yet. She could see how being a magically-created...thing...with no body or anything of her own, attached to the daughter of the person who'd made her, might be very, very confusing. She wasn't entirely sure it'd be taken well.

When the world didn't flicker for a long moment, she picked up her fork, started gathering up a bit of pasta. As one second after another passed without a response, Hazel seriously started worrying she'd made a mistake. She wouldn't leave, would she? _Could_ she? She really hoped her not-quite-mother wasn't angry with her. That would just be...bad.

She was temporarily distracted when she took her first bite. Oh god, real food tasted so good, she thought she might cry. Of course, she was already sort of almost crying anyway, but that wasn't the point.

Almost the instant she swallowed, the world finally flickered again. She gave the notebook a nervous look. Then she grinned, let out a relieved sigh that almost turned into a choked giggle at the end.

 _You really don't need to be thanking me. I should really be the one thanking you. I honestly thought you'd be angry with me at first, even if just for a few minutes. I do have six years of horrible failure to make up for. I don't deserve it. But you're welcome, sweetheart._

Yes. It hadn't even been a whole day yet. But Hazel was starting to think that, even if she wasn't even a little bit like a normal one, she was going to really love having a mother.

* * *

She took control of Hazel's body with the slightest touch of effort. Which was interesting, considering how difficult it'd been at first, how long it'd taken her to figure out how to do it at all.

Possessing someone, as she knew this technically was, still felt slightly strange. Not as disorienting as it'd been at first, just a little tingly numbness, very much like the pins and needles of sleeping limbs. She wasn't sure if it was because this wasn't technically her body, or if it was just because she'd spent a while, well, not having one. (Or maybe she'd never had one. She wasn't honestly sure.) The first time, it'd been incredibly disorienting; she was honestly a bit surprised she'd managed not to splinch Hazel at all. Pulling out had gone rough enough Hazel had lost her balance and fallen. She'd been planning to be more gentle about it, maybe do a bit of light experimentation in Hazel's sleep, but, well. Hazel had been seconds away from being beaten. What was she supposed to have done, nothing?

She'd never been too great at doing nothing. Or, Lily hadn't, at least.

And that little identity problem was a whole can of worms she didn't feel like opening right now.

She swung herself around in Hazel's infuriating excuse for a bed, reached for the little girl's magic. If anything, this felt even stranger than controlling Hazel's body. Back when she'd had magic of her own, or at least in Lily's memories of when _she_ had, it hadn't felt _anything_ like this. She'd taught herself to control her magic consciously to achieve minor little tricks when she'd been even younger than Hazel, so she had a far greater idea of what magic felt like than most. Hazel's magic was hot, twisting and climbing like fire — much like Lily's had been, actually. But Lily's magic had also been dry and sharp like fire, while Hazel's very much wasn't. It had this sense of wetness, of slipperiness. Not in an unpleasant way, but almost enticingly soft and smooth, rather like silk touched with sweat, flower petals layered in dew. Honestly, it sort of reminded her of—

Well, something that was inappropriate to be thinking about while in her seven-year-old daughter's body, anyway.

She wasn't sure what that meant. Or even if it meant anything. It was considered common wisdom that a person's magic reflected their personality, that people sensitive to such things could divine quite a bit about a person by what they felt like. As a person who _was_ sensitive to such things, Lily had quickly determined the idea was total shite. For example, Sev came across to everyone as harsh and frigid, but to her touching his magic had always felt like sinking into a warm bath, calm and soothing. Unless he was angry, of course, but even then he felt more like fire and lightning than the unyielding ice most would probably expect. So, she had no idea if it was important or not. It was just strange. She wasn't sure if she'd ever felt this seductive slickness in a person's magic before.

Actually, she had met a few people with a vaguely similar feeling about them, but they weren't even human, so she wasn't sure if the impression were at all comparable.

But anyway, it was a simple matter to bend Hazel's liquid fire into a form that would check the time for her — adjusted from precise solar time to local reckoning with another slight tweak. Ten fifty-five in the morning. Perfect. Andi and Ted should be arriving at eleven. A couple quick tracking charms confirmed all three Dursleys were in the living room. Perfect. She gathered an unlocking charm in Hazel's hand, placed skin against wood.

It was time to go poke a dragon in the eye.

The door swung open, a runic spell she'd laid weeks ago turning her escape completely silent. She blinked Hazel's eyes a moment, waiting for them to adjust to the sudden increase in light, then pushed herself on up, padding into the hall. In a moment she was just outside the door to the living room, air vibrating ever so slightly with the noise from the television. She took in and out a long breath, going through her plan one more time. This was going to be interesting.

She stepped inside, started walking toward the television. Petunia was so absorbed in her book, Vernon his newspaper, and Dudley the programme that no one even noticed her approach. At least, not until the tendrils of smooth, oily magic she was intentionally leaking — should anyone check their memories of the event, they'd likely determine it accidental magic — started interfering with the electron guns in the television. The colours first distorted slightly, as though someone were fiddling with the tint knob on an older television, but soon the image started scrambling, the programme dissolving into rainbow static. The sound kept going as normal, though. Television was distributed by cable in this neighborhood, not wirelessly, and the magic she was releasing wasn't dense enough to interfere with the speakers directly. Dudley frowned for a moment in stupid confusion, then glanced up and around.

And saw her. Or, Hazel, actually. And, since this unfortunate child had been taught all his life that everything bad that happened was his freak cousin's fault, his blank face quickly contorted into anger. And, because he was lazy enough he would never lift a finger if he didn't have to, he immediately turned to his father. ' _Daaaad_ , Hazel's doing something to the telly.'

Vernon glanced up, his tiny beady eyes set in his enormous pink face giving her a double-take. Because, of course, she wasn't supposed to be out here. His face quickly shading red, he said in a low, threatening growl, 'How did you get out of your cupboard?'

Of course, she wasn't actually afraid of him at all. She'd been threatened by people far more scary than Vernon Dursley — honestly, after facing people like Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Black, and Thomas bloody Gaunt himself, Vernon's absolute best effort struck her as more funny than even the slightest bit intimidating. But she had to pretend. She knew the Dursleys would likely have their memories examined, and she didn't trust her control of Hazel's magic well enough to take care of that. She didn't fake a full terror though. She faked the wavering posture of someone who was _trying_ to be brave, but wasn't doing a very good job of it. Thought she was doing okay. 'I found out how to make it work. Make it go on purpose.'

Oh, yes, his face was going quite red. 'Make _what_ work?' The threat was very clear on his voice, though with a fair amount of confusion as well; by how Petunia was rapidly paling, though, she was sure the bitch knew exactly what she was talking about.

'This.' She closed Hazel's eyes for a moment, pulling a face of intense concentration — concentration she didn't actually need to do this, but she _was_ putting on a performance here. A flex of effort, and she opened her eyes again to find a thin layer of orange-red flame flickering in a tight sheath over the skin of Hazel's right hand.

She definitely had the Dursleys' attention now. The boy had let out a terrified squeal, Vernon's face shifted past red and straight into purple, Petunia had gone so pale her lips were turning blue. Good.

'Things are going to change around here.' She let the magic fade out, the fire instead switching over to her voice, the simulated fear and weakness gradually replaced with rising anger. Which was only partially faked, honestly. 'You're not going to lock me in the cupboard anymore. If you try, I'll just get myself out anyway. You're going to let me have one of the extra bedrooms, with a real bed. You're going to give me real food, you're going to give me real clothes. I'll still do the chores; it'll be easy with my light to help. And you're not going to hurt me again. If you try, you'll be sorry.'

Yep, Vernon was still purple, fists clenching around his newspaper. Good. She'd thought it possible, however unlikely, that if she scared him with a little magic, he'd actually treat Hazel marginally better. Not better _enough_ , but better to a degree it'd be harder to get her permanently out of here. So, instead she had to push his buttons. With a person like Vernon, and she used the word "person" very loosely, that was really quite easy: she simply had to have the _useless, disgusting, unnatural freak_ dictate terms to him. Appeal to his anger, rather than his fear.

Though, come to think of it, she really had to wonder what the Dursleys had been hoping to achieve by treating Hazel as they'd been. Surely, they had to realise abusing a child they _knew_ would eventually develop the ability to alter reality at a whim was a very, very bad idea. Honestly, if it had been Lily in Hazel's place, she wasn't sure if the Dursleys would have survived long enough to see her leave for Hogwarts.

And then Vernon was on his feet. _Wow_ , Hazel was tiny, still getting used to that. And he was yelling at her. Something about telling him what to do in his own house, blah blah, she wasn't really paying attention. She kept herself standing straight and tall, until Vernon suddenly stepped inward, hand reaching for her arm. She let a flare of panic flash across her face, backing away with a sharp snap of magic — it had to _look_ mostly accidental, but the wide-angle stinging jinx she laid into Vernon's hand and arm was anything but. And also far less than he deserved. But it was probably all she could get away with.

Maybe she could come back and torture the slug when Hazel's magical ability had developed some. The idea had merit.

And that _really_ set Vernon off. With a bellowing roar of fury, his fist started flying. She could have stopped it. Easily. Even with Hazel's magic as immature as it was, she could turn Vernon to ash with a thought. And, with just how much she'd come to hate him since waking up about a month and a half ago, she had trouble stopping herself. But she did nothing.

Instead, she let her brother-in-law beat on her daughter's body, screaming and crying in her daughter's voice, begging him to stop, promising she would be a good girl from now on. It did rather hurt, but not that much — she'd taken much worse than this in duels before. She was merely giving the most dramatic performance she possibly could without seeming too fake.

Because this was a performance.

Vernon only managed to hit her five times before the front door was blasted in with what felt like a bludgeoning hex, and their audience had arrived. Seconds later, a flash of red light flashed crossed her vision, the sensation of a stunner passing nearby washing across her skin. And the air was filled with Petunia's high panicky screeching, and the level slashing bite of an angry Andromeda. She couldn't see what was going on, and she couldn't hear very well — one of those hits had been a rather hard smack to the side of Hazel's head, and she was annoyingly dizzy — but she still had to hold back a smile.

End scene.

* * *

 _Yeah, about this one, uh..._

 _No comment *flees*_


	4. From a Distance

**_From a Distance_**

* * *

There was absolutely no indication anything unusual would happen. Far back in a perfectly unremarkable orchard, it was a perfectly normal autumn night. Deep and chill, darkness broken only by the faint glow of towns in the distance, pinpricks of starlight peeking through the nearly overcast sky. Barren hazelnut trees quivered in the light breeze, the occasional sound of twigs rustling together, wood softly groaning. But otherwise, silent, still, calm.

But then, Fate rarely ever gives any warning before pulling Her usual nonsense.

There was no crescendo, no subtle building of power. One second, nothing; the next, everything. White light exploded into existence with a high shriek, the agonised keening reality could not withhold at the rent torn into it. Bolts of silver lightning, tendrils of unforgiving power, one then another and another, broke off from the vortex, blindly grasping at grass, at trunk, at branch, a dozen trees bursting into flame all at once. In the center of the violence, a dark shape gradually emerged, an indistinct form silhouetted against the impossible glare. In the storm of light and noise, the form grew larger, and larger.

The vortex abruptly vanished, leaving behind scorched earth and burning tree, a nude, pale-skinned woman collapsed trembling in the center.

Once her lungs started working again, Elizabeth Potter screamed.

She'd known it would hurt. It was well-established that, in any sort of event like this, a sort of disharmonic interference set in proportional to the degree of displacement. In the rare spontaneous event, reality bending without conscious guidance, it was evidently even worse — very few people have ever survived such an experience. When the displacement is engineered intentionally, the designer of the ritual can, to some degree, anticipate potential sources of interference and make adjustments, smoothen out the waveform. But not _completely_. This sort of magic simply wasn't understood well enough to ever account for everything. So, she'd known it would hurt.

But bloody buggering _fuck_ , she hadn't expected just how _much_. It was as fiendfyre transmuted into lightning, sparking up and down her nerves, consuming every bit of her from the inside out. The denser the nerve endings, the worse it got — which in a few places was _not a fun thing to experience_. After only seconds, her vision nothing but red and white spots unchanged no matter whether her eyes were open or closed, her body convulsing outside of her control, the faint taste of blood already rising from the tearing in her throat, she could do absolutely nothing but internally beg for it to stop. It didn't even matter exactly how.

Much as the white had swept her up and dropped her, coming and going in an instant flash, the pain was abruptly gone. Which, in an absurd sort of way, was quite possibly the best thing she had ever felt. The second after the agony lifted, an odd sense of euphoria shot across her, making her feel almost giddy. No _almost_ about it, actually — she couldn't help a few breathless, girlish giggles, gasping for breath in the powdery dirt.

After a few minutes, or perhaps hours for all she could tell, Ellie gradually gained control of herself. She weakly pushed herself up to unsteady feet, took a moment to gaze blearily around. A shallow crater gouged into the earth, coated in two inches of ash and tiny slivers of glass, the grass for metres around blackened and curling, the nearest trees broken and shattered, a few further away still burning bright in the night. Huh. She couldn't help feeling glad, in a somewhat tired, absent sort of way, that Hermione had convinced her to use as an anchor this particular confluence in ambient magic, deep in the middle of one of County Kent's many hazelnut orchards. If she'd been anywhere near somewhere populated, this could have killed a fair number of people.

But she didn't have time to let her thoughts wander right now. She was in the middle of nowhere, sure, but that was a serious magical disturbance she'd just rode her way in on. There was absolutely no doubt the Department of Mysteries would come to investigate. With the war going on, she rather expected they would be a bit busy — it might take them some time to get here, but they would certainly come. They would ask her questions she couldn't answer. And she was exhausted, her wand out of reach, and, to top it all off, quite naked at the moment. No, would not be waiting around.

Her steps heavy and uneven, she slowly walked up out of the crater, started stumbling her way down between two rows of trees. Once she was a short distance away from where she'd arrived, she pulled at her magic, drawing it up and into her throat. It took her far too many attempts, her hold on her magic almost too clumsy to manage even that — good thing she didn't have to rely on wandless magic to retrieve her things. Still unsteadily walking along, she hissed under her breath, pleading for help, her magic amplifying the Parseltongue call, sending the command far further than it would travel on its own.

For minutes she walked, hissing the same short phrase over and over, fighting the increasing urge to sit down and rest.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she heard a light rustling off to her left. She stopped, turned her head just in time to catch a dark shape moving through the grass. It took a moment for her to gather enough details to pick out what it was: a common adder, maybe a foot and a half long, a rare solid black. She wasn't sure if she should find that funny or not. Not important. She hissed down at the thing, ordering it to go to the nearest human dwelling, steal a knife for her somehow — if not a knife, something equally sharp of similar size — and come back with it. Again, she forced more power into the command than simple Parseltongue. The sapience snakes seemed to have speaking to her was nothing but an illusion, a temporary construct Parselmouths instinctively created in those they spoke with; without the extra power, the simulated consciousness would break down long before the little thing could carry out her orders.

Once it had slithered away, Ellie plodded over to the nearest tree, slumped to sit with her back propped against it. Taking long, calming breaths, she prodded at her thigh, planning out where she'd make her incision.

It had taken the work of all four of them to recreate the ritual only alluded to in documents burgled from...honestly she didn't remember where, one of the many places they'd targeted. Anyway, after a few months of intermittent work, they had managed to finish it. And successfully, too — here she was, alive and safely displaced, she could only assume, to the proper point in the past. But despite all their work, there was one problem they'd discovered early on in development they'd never managed to solve: the ritual would displace her, but _only_ her. Anything she carried, anything she wore, all of it would be left behind. Hence the naked part. There'd been one small trick Luna'd thought of, very clever. Anything that was _fully enclosed_ by her body would be considered _part_ of her body, whether it biologically was or not. The magic of the ritual wasn't that specific.

She'd had Daphne implant her wand along her femur for her. But now she had to get it out herself.

It was not going to be fun.

She was just starting to worry her little helper would never return, and maybe getting a bit cold, when she heard rustling again. And there he was, the thin handle of a short knife held awkwardly between his jaws. Hissing a thank you, with an appreciative stroke along his back, she accepted the knife. Holding it tight in her right hand, she prodded further at the vague shape of her wand under her skin, making sure she'd detected the base correctly, just above her knee. She placed the blade — rather less sharp than she would like, but oh well — against her skin, wincing at the sensation of cold metal against her shivering flesh. A whimper of protest clawed at her throat, but she shoved it down; a tingle of panic sparked in her head, begging her to retreat from the _wrongness_ of what she was about to do, but she ignored that. She'd been injured much worse than this before. Of course, she hadn't done any of that to herself, but still, this wasn't that big of a deal. She had to stop being so very silly. Right now.

With as much force as she could muster, she pushed the knife into her skin, and shoved the blade down her leg, cutting a deep furrow from the tip of her wand, stretching an inch or two down toward her knee.

The pain was instant and distracting, lines of throbbing fire that seemed to extend beyond where she knew the wound ended, splintering through flesh and bone from her ankle to her hip. The knife fell to the ground as she clutched at her leg with shaking fingers, choking back a scream well enough it came out as little more than a gasping moan. Blood quickly welled up between her fingers, the feel of it running down the sides and back of her leg and slipping in narrow streams up the underside of her thigh was almost more ticklish than anything. Ignoring the flaring agony with each touch, the rising nausea in her throat, she poked into the gash with the fingers of her right hand, pushing past layers of skin and flesh, probing, searching for—

There! She pushed and pulled at the little disk with a finger, wincing as the rotation pinched at her wounded nerves. She got the disc between thumb and finger, started drawing the little thing out of her. It was slippery with her blood, making the process far more difficult than it had to be, but she eventually got it out, the thin wire at one end still stretching into her. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her hand tight around the disc, and yanked straight out from herself.

She gasped, shuddered at the indescribably _uncomfortable_ feeling of her wand moving beneath her skin, but the experience was thankfully short-lived, the length of wood exiting the hole above her knee with a popping, slurping noise she prayed she'd never have to hear again. Dangling from the wire connected to the disc, she grabbed at her wand, the rush of comforting warmth and tingling power immediately bringing a pained smile to her face. A couple waves had the damage to her thigh healed, the blood on her leg vanished. She twisted the blade of the knife twice along the wire, snapped it off her wand with a jerk of her wrist. A conjured cloth to wipe the blood from the wand itself, a left-handed vanishing to take care of the rest of the blood on her fingers. And it was done.

She leaned back against the tree, the bark pinching at her bare skin, tipped her head back to thunk against the wood. And let out a heavy sigh. That had been fun. Her eyes drifted closed, exhaustion pulling her seductively downward.

She really should get up. She couldn't just sleep here. If nothing else, she'd get really cold. But _Morgen_ , she was _so tired_...

Reddish light splashed against her eyelids, soft booms and sizzles coming a bit muffled, arrived from some distance. She forced her eyes open, leaned a bit forward, looked around for the source of the noise. After a moment, she found it: fireworks. Magical fireworks, in fact — she was some distance away, but she figured the display of red, yellow, and white shooting stars on the horizon would be quite impressive at a...nearer...

Okay, this was weird. There was something familiar about this. She couldn't quite place it. It was... It was something about shooting stars and Kent. Come on, _come on_ , what was it? She couldn't think of it clearly, the memory too indistinct. A couple of the older Order members, she thought, after Tom's resurrection but before the war really picked up. For some reason, she was remembering a...purple top hat? What was that supposed to mean? Shooting stars...Kent...Order...purple top hat...shooting stars...Kent...Order...

Ah, yes, Daedalus Diggle, that was it. He always did seem to wear that same damn hat. It was a nice hat, she guessed, but some variety wouldn't kill him. Anyway, she remembered now, he'd been fined a considerable number of galleons once upon a time, something about nearly breaking the Statute of Secrecy by firing off a bunch of magical fireworks too near muggle settlements. Diggle always had been a very excitable little guy, and she guessed it had just been too much for his self-control when he'd found out—

A sharp block of ice abruptly fell into Ellie's stomach, a frisson of horror sparking across her skin. Before she even really noticed what was happening, she jumped up to her feet, staring wide-eyed at the lights in the sky. Diggle had lit those fireworks for...in celebration of the _fall of Voldemort_. But...that couldn't be!

No.

No, no, no.

Oh, fuck no.

From a great deal closer, in the direction of her arrival point, successive pops of apparation split the night. Without thinking, Ellie twisted into the inbetween, cold bands of steel squeezing at her from each side, before the world suddenly appeared again around her. She glanced around her, making sure no one was around, but she was deep in the Forest of Dean, and she didn't see anybody. She conjured herself some robes, quickly dressed. Then she apparated, again and again and again and again. A few metres back and forth, a couple times further away into the forest before popping right back. She threw in a couple longer-distance trips, all to places in the middle of nowhere. Then she popped in not far from Hogsmeade once, giving them the lead they'd follow if they got that far. Then she shadow-walked straight into Diagon Alley, appearing in the middle of the apparation point a few steps away from the front doors of Gringotts.

And was immediately distracted by the babbling roar of voices around her. She looked around the Alley, mouth dropping in disbelief. She'd never seen the Alley like this before. The entire space was packed with dozens, hundreds of people. Chatting, cheering, laughing. Colourful ribbons danced through the air, magical lights sparkling and bouncing from place to place. It was the middle of the goddamn night, and there was a festival going on in Diagon Alley.

 _No, no, no, no,_ _ **no**_ _!_

Her ears pounding at the noise, her teeth grinding so hard her jaw hurt, her fingers clenched tight on her wand, Ellie forced her way into the crowd, pushing on toward the Leaky Cauldron. Revelers jostled her, bumping into her at full force again and again, or simply shoving a hard elbow into her side. Progress was slow, and by the time she was approaching Fortescue's she was already half-deaf, and sore all over from being bumped and prodded. As she passed the tables outside the ice cream parlour, she noticed a messily-folded _Daily Prophet_ , sitting out unattended. She barely spared a glance for the enormous, bolded headline taking up most of the visible page before she snapped it up and continued on.

 _HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED DEAD! HIGH ENCHANTER CONFIRMS RUMOURS!_

But with only that, Ellie was quivering with helpless fury. No! It was supposed to be _September!_ Why, why, _**why**_ was it _November_?

The Leaky Cauldron, when she finally reached it, was just as filled with noisy celebration as the outside. The place was packed, people chattering and laughing, singing songs she couldn't understand over the noise. As she pushed her way to the bar, she heard one group of people shout out a toast to the Potters, and she couldn't help the shiver of hatred running down her spine. She knew the wizarding world back in the seventies and eighties couldn't have been any different than it'd been when she'd been around. She just knew these ingrates hadn't done a _thing_ to stop Tom and his cronies themselves. She just knew they hadn't lifted a finger, hadn't done a _single thing_ to deserve all this celebration. And here they were _honouring_ two of the people who _actually had_ , but not even for the constant, dangerous and thankless work they'd been doing for _years_ — no, just because they'd died! And the beginning of that ridiculous hero-worship they had for her, oh, she knew it was happening even now, people starting to build the myth of the Girl-Who-Lived, who had saved them all from their _worthless dithering_ , at the low, low cost of _everyone who loved her_. For an extra dose of stupidity, Ellie _hadn't even done anything!_ The whole thing had been her mother! But _no_ , we couldn't actually give a _muggleborn_ credit for something like that, could we? Even one widely known to be an almost absurdly talented prodigy. No, had to be the helpless infant. Somehow.

God, she really did hate magical Britain sometimes.

She'd lost her parents _again!_ God _fucking_ _ **dammit**_ _!_

It took all she had to stop the incandescent, explosive magic boiling within her from tearing apart the room, perhaps a few of the people in it, so she didn't have enough concentration left to stop her teeth from grinding, her fingers from twitching.

After long, annoying minutes, she finally got Tom's attention, and luckily there was a room available. Also luckily, Tom didn't make any fuss about paying ahead of time, or even proving she had any coin on her — he was either distracted by the celebration, or maybe that was a policy he implemented later, she honestly didn't know. And soon she was alone, in a small, somewhat dilapidated room. Which she hardly paid any attention to. She didn't plan on staying here for long, after all. She dropped the newspaper on the dresser, yanked it apart, spread open to the leading article.

Her fingers tightened further and further on the thin parchment as she read. Dozens of Imperius curses breaking around the country simultaneously, blah blah. Death Eaters confused and disorganised, blah blah. A melted human body identified as _You-Know-Who_ (ergh) found in the Potters' cottage in Godric's Hollow, blah blah. The Lord and Lady James and Lily Evans Potter found dead but, in a crib just before the barely recognisable corpse of the reviled Dark Lord, their—

For a couple seconds, all Ellie could do was stare at the offending word, confusion weakening the assault of her rage and despair.

Their _son_? Their infant son, Harry Potter. _What_? Since when... She didn't...

She let out a long sigh. Well, sure, that was a possibility, she guessed. That was one of the peculiarities of long-distance dislocation in time. Hermione had described it as a two-dimensional plane, the x-axis demarcating different points in time, the y-axis different realms, different realities. Short distance hops were accurate — it wasn't hard to stay in your own reality (or stay at the proper time, if you were jumping between realities instead). The further and further out you get on either axis, though, the less accurate you are on the opposite. Going back roughly nineteen years as she had, it was unlikely she'd end up in the exact same reality she'd left from. Similar — it would take a _very_ extreme dislocation to end up in a totally unfamiliar realm — but different.

They had talked about this, mostly as it related to tracking down horcruces, which might not be in quite the places she remembered. Somehow, she hadn't anticipated her other self being a boy as a possibility. Not that it particularly mattered, she guessed. It was just a bit _weird_.

So. That hadn't gone as planned. She'd intended to come back in September, arrange Pettigrew's death so he couldn't betray her parents, then start working on tracking down Tom's horcruces while making whatever strikes against the Death Eaters she could. It might have been better to go back further, true, but their aim, so to speak, would have been less accurate the further back they tried to throw her, and it would have created increased risk in the ritual itself, possibly even killing her. She was rather lucky as it was — she'd come out in pain, sure, but uninjured. Could have gone much worse.

She couldn't save her parents. That _sucked_ , yes. But, well...

That was why they'd come up with a plan B.

With a sigh, she let the newspaper fall slumped to the floor. She needed her notes. Her notes, unfortunately, were with the rest of her supplies. Much like her wand, she and her friends had thought of a way to get whatever she might need into this time with her. It had required designing new variations on space-expanding enchantments and shrinking charms that were more efficient, wouldn't conflict, and would be unaffected by the magic of the ritual, but it'd worked. And, of course, finding a good place to actually _put_ the little box. The shape of the thing had made things a bit problematic. The wand could be laid along the muscle over her femur without too much difficulty, yes. A box like that was more difficult to find a place it wouldn't interfere with her movement, or be too difficult to remove. It had been Luna who had figured out the solution. The three of them had stared at her like she were crazy when she'd first brought it up. Not that that was an uncommon occurrence or anything, honestly.

She was currently carrying her belongings in her uterus. And, yes, she was aware of how incredibly weird that sounded. Hermione had carved some runic numbing charms into the surface of the box, so she couldn't feel the thing, erm, rattle around when she moved, but it was there. She'd been unconscious for the actual implantation — and if that hadn't been one of the more awkward things she'd ever participated in — but she'd have to be awake to get it out. Which made perfect sense, she'd be doing it herself. Hermione and Luna had talked her through the process (the three of them ignoring the occasional suggestive comment from Daphne), but...

Yeah, this wasn't going to be fun at all.

She shot a quick series of locking and sealing and silencing charms at the door. Then, doing her best to squelch her own rising squeamishness, she canceled the conjuration clothing her, and made her way for the bed.

* * *

Ellie felt somewhat better after her nap. She hadn't been asleep long — the sun hadn't yet risen — but since she'd left her time in mid-morning she guessed she had probably the strangest ever case of jet lag.

Now that she was somewhat more coherent, she went over to her multi-compartment trunk, now laid out on the floor at full size. She went for her clothes first, not bothering with anything more than knickers and a chemise for the moment, mostly just in the off-chance anyone bursts in here somehow. With her charms still up it was unlikely, but still. Though she did strap on both of her wand holsters — one on her right forearm, the other on her left thigh — and slip the proper wand into each — her primary wand on her arm, her backup on her leg. Yes, she was slightly paranoid, coming to adulthood in a war could do that. For a moment, she stared at the latch for the compartment Nuala was inside, but ultimately decided to just leave her in there for now. She'd been dosed with Draught of Living Death anyway, Ellie would have to brew up an antidote before waking her up, and she didn't feel like it right now.

And, yes, she had been carrying a house-elf inside her uterus for a while there. She realised how strange that was. And she didn't regret asking Nuala if she'd come back with her at all. Damn useful, elves.

That, and it meant one fewer person she'd have to miss.

But, anyway. She dove into the compartment holding books, back issues of the _Daily Prophet_ , notes she and others had made, whatever they'd thought was useful. After a bit of searching, she pulled out one file in particular: the rough timeline of events they'd been able to put together, as detailed as they'd been able to make it from Tom Riddle's birth until the present— Well, not the _present_ day anymore, but when she'd left in 2001. Whatever. It was by necessity very thin in places, but when the Death Eaters had started making the papers, when people they could ask questions of had been old enough to remember, they'd managed to be much more thorough.

Plan B was, in some ways, not too dissimilar from plan A. If she should fail to get rid of Pettigrew before he could betray her parents — and she hadn't even had a _chance_ to fail, because the _stupid bloody ritual_ had dropped her in two months late — she would try to mitigate some of the greater issues between Voldemort's first death and his resurrection. Which would involve, of course, entirely preventing his resurrection. Shouldn't be hard. She had until the summer solstice of 1995 to hunt down all his horcruces. If she were lucky, the original six would even be the same things in the same places she remembered, and Tom wouldn't have an opportunity to make any more. Shouldn't be difficult at all.

Though she still wasn't entirely sure she could handle the exorcism ritual to get rid of the one on her alternate past self on her own, but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

First, she should decide what she had to do in the short term. It was currently — she checked the time quick with a wandless charm — half past three in the morning. Assuming this was yesterday's paper she had here, that was half past three in the morning on the Second of November. _Harry_ Potter would presently be on the Dursleys' doorstep, but he wouldn't be found until five-thirty, maybe six. Six-thirty at the latest. She should pick him up before five, just in case. Because she was _not_ leaving... This would probably be less weird if she just started thinking of her alternate self as her brother. Right, she wasn't leaving her baby brother to the Dursleys. No fucking way.

She hadn't _planned_ on raising her gender-swapped alternate past self, but...it was sort of necessary, so she guessed she'd do it. Not that she'd ever actually admitted this to anyone, but she'd kind of always wanted to start a family when her life was finally stable enough to do so. Weird way to go about it, but it'd do for now. She'd have to deal with Dumbledore eventually, but she could handle that. Maybe getting Sirius to properly claim guardianship, and just living with him, could solve that problem.

Speaking of Sirius, according to the _Daily Prophet_ (and confirmed by records swiped from the DLE), that showdown with Pettigrew had happened on the evening of November Third. She also knew exactly where. She couldn't head Sirius off _before_ then — she had absolutely no idea where he'd be between now and then — but, assuming events in this timeline didn't end up going significantly differently, she could certainly interrupt that little disaster. That was a rather narrow window she had to intervene, but she could work with that.

That had a plan B too, she guessed. If it went badly, she could just wait for Pettigrew to turn up at the Weasleys, which would only take about a year and a half, then capture him and bring him to the DLE. She'd rather not have to leave Sirius in Azkaban even that long, though.

Third, there was the Longbottoms. Crouch Junior would be letting the Lestranges through their wards on the Ninth. She had to think about exactly how she would deal with that for a moment. Ah, yes. If she did successfully keep Sirius from getting himself thrown in prison, she could use him (and Harry) as her way in the door. When the Lestranges attack, the four of them should certainly be able to handle the three — four if Crouch joins in the battle, but he was never really a fighter, so that's not too likely. If she _didn't_ manage to hang on to Sirius...well, she'd still have Harry, and he'd probably get her in the door just fine. Even the three of them could probably handle the Lestranges. The Longbottoms were young, but they _were_ Aurors, and supposedly not bad ones either. Bellatrix was the only one of the three who was actually that much of a problem, and Ellie knew from experience she could handle her one-on-one without too much difficulty. Not _easy_ , sure, but she could do it.

Of course, if she didn't have Sirius, she'd have to figure out where the Longbottoms were staying somehow. They never had managed to track down that information. Hell, she could probably just ask them. Send them an owl, say she's a relative of Lily's who got dragged into all this mess when she assumed custody of Harry, but she's not really from around here, would you like to meet up and get acquainted? Should work.

And speaking of _that_ , she had some falsified documents she had to plant. The Office of Records with the increasingly beleaguered Aquitanian magical government had been kind enough to issue her identification — under her new name, Élise Augustine Morgaine, everything properly backdated — without asking too many questions. (Yes, she actually did have distant muggle relatives with a surname that was basically a Frenchified version of Morgen, she hadn't been able to help a baffled chuckle when she'd found them.) It was probably fortunate they hadn't asked what she needed it for; she doubted they'd have been happy if she'd told them she planned to break into that very office at some point in the past to plant forged documents to match. They would likely have been more confused than angry, but still not happy. She'd also have to plant academic records, so she'd need to "visit" the Department of Education, and also break into Beauxbatons as long as she was in the country. The last shouldn't be too hard — she'd checked, and Beauxbatons had pitiful defenses compared to the Aquitanian government in her time, and things hadn't been any different back then.

Er, weren't any different right now. Yes.

Anyway, she didn't have to do that immediately. But soon. It was certainly possible the Longbottoms might call up some contact in the Aquitanian government to confirm her story. They were Aurors, after all. Planting those documents would have to be done sometime before the Ninth. So. Go pick up Harry in about an hour; set up the tent as a temporary hideaway in the meanwhile. Tomorrow, brew that antidote for Nuala, then intervene in Sirius's confrontation with Pettigrew. Break into the offices of the French magical government on...the Sixth, that was a Friday, perfect. Beauxbatons the next day. Then save the Longbottoms on the Ninth.

There. That was her short term plan, dealing with the immediate issues through the next couple weeks. Should probably try to work in taking out Dolohov, bastard had killed a few Hit Wizards and an Auror sent to arrest him. But that wasn't until the Seventeenth, she could think about that later. This was good for now.

She could worry about tracking down the horcruces, and dealing with Tom himself, when things were a bit less hectic, and she felt a bit less like setting everything on fire.

* * *

Of course everything couldn't go _too_ easily. That would just be boring.

Privet Drive was exactly as Ellie remembered it. Not that she could say that was a good thing. Honestly, she wasn't sure if she had a single pleasant memory of this place. Living here had been bloody awful, sometimes she'd just wanted to slap Dumbledore for leaving her here — not as satisfying as cursing him, maybe, but he probably would have let her get away with slapping him, so. He'd gone and dumped her in an environment absolutely bereft of love and affection of any kind, a sick excuse for a family whose treatment of her amounted to neglect on the _good_ days, where she'd been completely and entirely alone, had had to learn to fend for herself every single step of the way from day fucking one, and he'd been enough of an unmitigated, breathtaking, unbelievable, _goat-fucking bastard_ to be all patronisingly _disappointed_ with her for being Sorted into Slytherin, as though that were both a bad thing and _not_ entirely his fault?

Honestly, just fuck Dumbledore, sometimes. She'd even told him that, once, to his face, screamed at him to fuck off and just mind his own business, to just leave her alone, or risk going out in a lot of pain and blood. It'd been just after she'd been abducted and quite nearly raped and tortured to death by Death Eaters — he had been lecturing her about killing them when she'd exploded on him — so she hadn't been the most composed at the time, and it'd been in Parseltongue, but she'd still said it.

Of course, that was _before_ she'd known the old fuck could understand Parseltongue perfectly fine. Whoops.

Just walking down the street — she'd had to pop in from a few houses away, she knew Dumbledore had cast wards on Number Four that would detect her if she apparated in too close — she already felt the old fury rising. Relatively old fury, anyway. It had taken her a long time to develop anger at the Dursleys. Not until third year, when she'd finally told Daphne a little bit about her living situation growing up (and still during the summers at the time), and Daphne had slowly, ever so slowly, convinced her that it was _not okay_ , how they'd treated her, that it wasn't her fault, that they were completely horrible people who should be in prison. It'd taken a lot of convincing, but she'd managed it eventually. Ellie gathered abused children could be weird like that. But anyway, even as she'd started to understand, she'd grown gradually more and more _livid_. By about two weeks into the next summer break, she'd developed a habit of fantasising about killing them. Nothing had happened that summer, at least partially because Daphne and Hermione had conspired to get her out of there early. But the next... It'd been barely a couple days after that abduction, so she'd already been on an _extremely_ short fuse, and Vernon had been hitting her, over something she couldn't remember, and, well.

They never had managed to completely erase the scars. Apparently, she'd been so completely consumed by her anger and hatred for that one moment that that particular burst of accidental magic had counted as dark.

She still thought the bastard was lucky he'd survived. She had proven just the previous week she was _well_ capable of killing someone. If she'd had her wand in hand at the time she would have.

To be honest with herself, she was _still_ a bit angry with Dumbledore over the conversation they'd had, after that brief official interview with a few DLE officials (which was apparently all the magical assault of a muggle already in the know warranted). Neither of her defenses — one that basically amounted to _he started it_ , another that she hadn't even meant to do it in the first place — had been at all acceptable to him. Bastard. Like that summer hadn't been hard enough without his usual self-righteous, condescending shite.

Though, maybe screaming a murder threat at him in Parseltongue as she had only a week earlier might have had something to do with his attitude. Maybe.

All that pent-up furious hatred she had for both the Dursleys and Dumbledore was far too tempting. It set her magic to boiling, so powerfully her body couldn't contain it, she could feel the tenebrous wisps of fire and lightning clawing at the air around her. Not literal fire and lightning, of course — she doubted it was visible. A mage would feel the maelstrom of barely restrained power swirling around her, a muggle maybe a bit of static on the air, the tang of ozone. In a distant corner of her mind that wasn't completely _red_ right now, she was a bit embarrassed with herself. She rarely ever lost control like this.

But she was having a bad day. She'd left the other three, the only friends, family she'd ever had, back in a future that would never be. She would never see them again — maybe some other version of them in a few years, but not _them_. And she hadn't even been able to save her parents like she'd planned, she'd lost them _again_. And she was on _Privet bloody **fucking** Drive_ for the first time in years. She thought she was justified in being not too happy at the moment.

She could kill the Dursleys. She could. Nobody could stop her.

As she stepped onto the grass, slipping directly toward the bundle of blankets at the foot of the door, she decided, no, she wouldn't be doing that. If someone asked her why, she'd say... Well, it would probably depend a bit on who was asking. She might say because murder was _wrong_ , obviously, come on. Or she might say, well, these Dursleys weren't the same Dursleys she remembered — the trio inside hadn't ever done a thing to her. That they certainly _would_ if events were allowed to play out the same was beside the point, they were technically innocent. There'd really be no point to taking vengeance for a crime only she remembered, and they'd never committed.

But, really, there was a much simpler reason: Dumbledore would surely track her down not too long after taking Harry, and he'd blame their deaths on her with only that circumstance, even if she left no direct evidence, even if he could convince no one else. No, it would just make everything too complicated.

So she forced her anger down as completely as she could, tamping down the fire threatening to scorch her ribs. It wasn't worth it. Very, very cathartic, sure; too big of a risk. Just take her alternate timeline brother and leave. Yes.

Before moving to pick Harry up — hmm, he'd gotten their father's hair, looked like — she plucked the letter out of the folds of his blankets, crushed it and set it alight in her bare hand. Because if the Dursleys weren't going to burn tonight, _something_ should.

Kneeling at the doorstep, gently wrapping her arms around the bundle of blankets that contained her tiny little one-year-old brother, she had a sudden...moment, she guessed. Just...god _damn_ the little thing was cute, that was all. He was old enough he'd passed the weird stage by now, the point where babies were still subtly disproportionate enough in their features they always struck her as somehow _wrong_. Instead he was just _adorable_ , face all round and soft, noticeably thin infant hair dark and all twisted into a disorderly, messy heap. Okay, that scar on his forehead disturbed the picture slightly, but she'd be such a hypocrite to care about that. So silent, and tiny, and calm, and just...

She spent a few breathless seconds, on her knees staring at him, before she even noticed her previous rage had entirely melted away.

It took a long moment to shake herself of that little episode, which she would later deny had ever happened should she be asked for some reason, and she smoothly gathered him up in her arms the next second. With a tactile snap, she felt charms breaking — felt like sleeping, warming, a selective notice-me-not. In an instant, she had him moved to her left arm, her wand flicked out into her right hand, quickly reapplying the first two. It was November, after all, and she'd noticed before that young children _really_ didn't like apparating, might as well spare him that. She pushed herself up to her feet, headed off toward the edge of the wards, where she could safely—

Before the flash of fire suddenly appearing a short distance away had even fully dissipated, she already had her wand pointed straight at the source. She only stopped walking when she turned her head that direction, saw what the fire had come from.

Well, if this wasn't just _perfect_.

There, standing right in the middle of the Dursleys' lawn, was Albus Standard-Pretentious-Middle-Names Dumbledore, looking only slightly younger than she remembered, softly glowing phoenix perched on his shoulder. In a thin, riotously orange nightrobe, actually — Dumbledore in his nightclothes was _not_ on her list of things she had wanted to see before she died. Her anger already rising again just on seeing him, it took her a moment to notice he'd trained his wand on her just as quickly as she had him. The fact that it was the Elder Wand he was pointing at her, while she just happened to be _holding Harry_ at the moment, only made her _more_ angry.

Hah. It just occurred to her there were two entire sets of Deathly Hallows now — she'd brought all three back with her, just in case they proved useful (not that the Stone was ever useful). Her timeline's iteration of Antioch Peverell's infamous creation was strapped to her thigh right now. She hadn't considered the implications at the time. That was kind of funny.

Before Dumbledore could cast anything, she said, 'Do you really plan to curse me while I've got Harry here in my arms?' She didn't bother trying to fake an accent to match her story. Should anyone ask, she'd just claim her parents had raised her bilingual. She should be trilingual for her story to fit perfectly, but two would just have to do — Luna and Daphne had taught her Aquitanian over the years, thankfully, but her French was still a little iffy. Close enough.

For a couple seconds, Dumbledore just stared at her, eyes slightly narrowed. Fawkes, she noticed, was casually picking at his hair, pulling at silvery strands with that fussy, motherly sort of way so many intelligent birds she'd run into over the years seemed to have. Of course, Fawkes should know already she didn't mean Harry any harm, so he wouldn't be worried. 'I suppose not,' Dumbledore finally said.

'Good.' She didn't lower her wand, Dumbledore didn't lower his, but she started a slow slide for the wardline anyway. 'We'll just be going, then.'

By the grim expression on his face, half-lit by phoenix light, he really didn't like that idea. 'And just what do you plan to do with young Harry?'

She didn't have to fake the snort of derision at all. 'Give him a far better life than my sick cousin and her pathetic excuse for a family would, I'd wager.'

Dumbledore had decent control of his face, sure, but not good enough she couldn't track the thoughts he was having — but then, she knew his motivations in putting Harry here in the first place, since they'd been the same ones that'd stuck her here, so she was basically cheating. First, there was the disbelief a dark witch — she'd already reflexively shoved away an equally instinctual legilimency probe, so their magic had been in contact, he'd probably noticed — was stealing away his precious Gi– _Boy_ -Who-Lived just to give him a better life. Then, the surprise — she was sure Dumbledore wasn't aware her mother had had magical cousins. Lily had tracked them down long ago, Ellie knew, but she hadn't felt it necessary to inform Dumbledore; they were a bit more distantly related than Ellie was planning on claiming, but not the point. Then, stumbling into a sort of concerned wariness. Because, see, Harry was supposed to stay in this shitty home. Harry was _supposed_ to have an unpleasant childhood. Dumbledore wasn't so uninformed as to not recognise the soul magic stuck in little Harry's head. And with the prophecy and everything, _clearly_ Harry was supposed to stop Voldemort and die trying. And it would be so much easier to talk him into doing that if, well, he wasn't particularly attached to his life. It was the easiest thing for everyone. _Obviously_.

Because it wasn't like practitioners of various light and white magics over the millennia had designed dozens of exorcism rituals that would be perfectly capable of removing the horcrux without harming Harry at all. That was just crazy talk!

But Dumbledore didn't call her out on that part. Smart of him — telling her, as she already knew he was thinking, that she had to leave Harry with an abusive family specifically so he could be abused would be very, very stupid. So instead he said, 'Cousin?'

'Yes,' she said, still inching closer to the wardline with every second stalled, 'cousin. Blood relative of Lily Potter _nas._ Evans.' She gestured to Harry with a dip of her chin. 'Blood-bound sacrificial exchange, am I right? That's why you wanted to leave him here?' When she'd finally learned the details of the vaunted protection she'd maintained with Petunia's presence in her life she'd been a bit disappointed. The "wards" he'd talked so much about had worked only against Tom specifically, and had been rather limited in just what she was protected from — physical contact and dark magic with deadly intent, more or less. And using her blood in his resurrection had negated even that. But, still, might as well swipe one of his bargaining chips off the table. She didn't think the protections were actually worth it, but he couldn't use that point as an argument if they'd work just as well off of her as Petunia. Better, technically, since for the purposes of blood-bound magics she was more closely related to Harry than Petunia was, not that Dumbledore could know that. So there.

By the increasingly aggravated cast to his face, he'd come to the same conclusion. 'You could feel that?'

She couldn't hold back another scoffing huff. 'I may be young, High Enchanter, but I am still a sorceress.'

A few blinks of surprise bought her another few inches. Not that the surprise was entirely unjustified. _Sorceress_ (or sorcerer, as appropriate) wasn't a title mages just threw around. The term was reserved for only the most powerful, the most naturally gifted. At any one time, there usually weren't more than a few dozen in any given magical nation. There was no test to determine whether a person was one or not, and it wasn't like people kept an official roster of them anywhere or anything, but, as the saying goes, _when you make one angry, you'll know_. Ellie had been widely considered one for the last couple years, so that wasn't even a lie.

While she continued inching toward the wardline, she started reaching out with a tendril of wandless magic, stretching for the bag at her hip. There was a particular construct in there, it would be really handy in a second, if she could just...

'If you must take young Harry's care upon yourself—' Dumbledore wasn't fooling her for a second, she could feel how painfully reluctant he was about the idea. '—there is no reason to rely on your own resources alone. We can help provide safe lodgings, security. Whatever you might need.'

Ellie snorted, holding back the urge to roll her eyes. Nice try, Dumbledore. Obviously, he was hoping he'd be able to keep her in his sight, in his reach, so he could remove Harry from her — or perhaps just remove her, if at all possible — at the earliest opportunity. 'That is very considerate of you, High Enchanter, but unnecessary. I am well capable of providing for the young _Lord Potter_ on my own.'

Dumbledore didn't respond to the light rebuke. But, then, she hadn't expected him to. 'And you expect me to let you just leave with him, without the slightest assurance he will be safe, without a clue on even where you're going?'

To be entirely fair, she didn't really _have_ a place to go right now. Before coming here, she'd just set up the tent in the same little glade somewhere in Ireland they'd spent so much time in recently — the same spot, actually, had just seemed the thing to do — and had started on the potion needed to wake Nuala. She planned to be staying with Sirius in a couple days. But, well, she knew there were a couple Potter properties she could set up in if she really needed to, and she'd have a frighteningly canny and fiercely, sometimes even violently protective house-elf to help her in just a few hours. It'd be fine.

Come to think of it, even should she successfully convince Sirius to hang around — which should be awkward, since she thought it might be necessary to explain the whole from-the-future thing, just to get him to trust her — moving into one of the Potter properties would probably be the best thing anyway. Sirius didn't have Grimmauld Place yet.

But anyway, she didn't let her wandering thoughts show on her face, her lips just twitching into a narrow smirk. After a second to consider whether it was really a good idea, she relaxed, allowed her magic to slip out of the rigid control she usually kept over it. Power bubbled ecstatic in her blood and in her mind, forcing her easy smirk into something more like an eager grin, the air around her quite nearly crackling with the energy leaking through her skin. She saw Dumbledore tense, only slightly, his eyes narrowing a touch. 'Honestly, I don't expect you to _let_ me do anything. There's nothing you can do that would actually have a _chance_ of successfully stopping me without risking serious harm to Harry. Go ahead and try, if you're so confident.'

Ellie was bluffing a little bit. Not a lot, but a little. She never had gotten _quite_ as good with alchemy as she would like, it was altogether possible Dumbledore could prevent her from crossing over the wardline with one of those transfiguration tricks he liked so much. One of her constructs might get her out, but there was a chance. This Dumbledore, however, had absolutely no idea transfiguration was a (comparatively) weak point of hers, so he probably wouldn't even try. By the very slight flinch of annoyance that crossed his face, he bought it. 'Can I at least know your name? Will I ever hear from you again, or do you plan on just taking Harry and disappearing off the face of the earth?'

'Where would be the fun in that?' She couldn't help a low chuckle at Dumbledore's glare. Sliding another couple steps to the side, and she felt it, the low tingle along her skin, her shoulder just touching the wardline. Finally. 'Do stop being so melodramatic, High Enchanter. I don't plan on kidnapping him and hiding him away from the world. I'm simply giving him a far better home is all.'

'Why don't you go through legal channels, then?'

She cocked an eyebrow at him. 'Why didn't you?' At some point, she'd learned Dumbledore did not have the right to just unilaterally decide to place an orphan wherever he wanted. There was an office in the Ministry responsible for that. This was so very much something Dumbledore wasn't allowed to do that she'd released a vague outline of her childhood to the press during her sixth year — partially as a gambit to get him to leave her the fuck alone, mostly just because she'd been furious with him and wanted to hurt him however she could. Which perhaps hadn't been a very strategically-sound thing to do, considering they had been in the opening months of open war at the time, but hey, she'd been sixteen years old, and not quite thinking entirely rationally, for a whole host of reasons.

Though, she'd probably do it again anyway. Watching Dumbledore's reputation be thoroughly torn into unrecognisable shreds by an outraged public had been _extremely_ satisfying.

Somewhat to her disappointment, he didn't react to the far less subtle rebuke. Not surprised, but still disappointed. A phrase which could describe how she felt about Dumbledore a lot, actually. She let out a short sigh, stepping half through the wardline. 'He's not going to _disappear_ , High Enchanter. Honestly, so dramatic. At the very latest, you'll see him when he starts at Hogwarts in ten years. Almost certainly before then, but I can't say for sure when. It's not like we're going to be hiding in a cave somewhere, after all.

'And it's Morgaine,' she said, completely incapable of holding in a smirk at Dumbledore's barely visible surprise at the name. The similarity with Morgen was a coincidence, sure, but she still loved it. 'Élise Morgaine. But if you use my first name, I will hex you. I'm a registered artificer, you know, you will address me properly or you will not at all — I simply don't like you enough to tolerate any greater familiarity from you.

'Ta ta for now, High Enchanter.' Ellie stepped the rest of the way through the wardline, Dumbledore's wand already turning to do something, she didn't know, but she jerked into an apparation before he could get off whatever he was trying. She reappeared just south of Exeter, but her feet barely touched the ground for an instant before she was apparating again, appearing shortly outside of a magical village in Brittany.

She was pretty sure Dumbledore would be following her, the wily old sorcerer _certainly_ knew how to trace an apparation without outside help. So she again immediately apparated away, bringing herself to one of the tiny islands off of Alderney. Ignoring the crashing of waves of around her, she turned to the west, apparated again, line-of-sight over the water as far as she could go. A short wave of her wand stilled the water at her feet, coming to rest on the shifting surface as though it were no more permeable than stone. She made another two quick line-of-sight apparations, before focusing on the construct she had wandlessly levitated out of her bag.

A jab of her wand, a stab of power, was all it took to activate the pre-enchanted catalyst, a wave of energy whipping out around her, the thin ambient magic over the open ocean churning and jittering. A one-off enchantment of her own invention, the charm scrambled ambient magic within its area of effect, masking virtually all trace magics any sort of spell might leave behind. It rather effectively hid almost everything — a forensic specialist might be able to tell some kind of dark magic had been cast somewhere, as an example, but probably in no more detail, it was very thorough. But it was most useful here in that, whatever method Dumbledore was using to tail her apparation, this would make it entirely useless. He'd be able to follow her to this spot, if he was lucky — he might have trouble following those line-of-sight hops over the water — but her trail out would be far too indistinct, he wouldn't be able to track it.

Just in case, she cast a quick notice-me-not over herself and hopped to a public apparation point in London. A short walk into the celebrating crowd, which _still_ hadn't dispersed despite the advanced hour, and Ellie disappeared again, stepping through shadows straight into the main room of her tent.

She let a bit of the tension in her shoulders ease, a sigh slipping between her lips. That was probably good enough. To be honest, it was probably overkill. And she'd gotten Harry out of there. So. Today wasn't a complete loss, she guessed.

She'd been an instant away from taking off the charm holding Harry asleep before she stopped, set him on the table, and whirled off to her brewing antidote. Yeah, she'd really rather have Nuala handy for this, thank you. She didn't know the first fucking thing about taking care of children this young.

Sometimes, she really had to wonder if she subconsciously made everything more complicated than it had to be. It would certainly explain a lot.

* * *

High Enchanter — _Readers of my other fics will recognise this as my substitute title used in place of Chief Warlock._

nas. — _Semi- made up Occitan, meant to be a native equivalent for the French-originating use of "_ _née" for birth surnames. The full word is actually "nascuda", but it's not unusual in Aquitania to abbreviate it in print, and pronounce it as it's written. And yes, Ellie is in character enough to remember to say it in Occitan._

* * *

 _I didn't plan on posting this today but, eh, why not._

 _The "Ellie" in this fic is the same as in **A Crash Course** — though, obviously, a few years older, and without the ill-fated trip to the DoM. And no, canon events don't stand a chance with someone like Ellie around, and she doesn't give a fuck about preserving some idea of the way things are supposed to go. She messes with whatever she feels like._

 _In case anyone was wondering, part of why I'm putting these here is because I'm planning on taking a break from TLG when it's done before moving on to the sequel. That won't be for some months still, but I'm planning ahead. In advance of that happening, since I don't actually care which one I work on that much, I'm going to be putting up a poll. The fics I'm posting the first chapters of here will be the choices._

 _So, it's not **completely** pointless?_

 _~Wings_


	5. A Slow Goodnight

**_A Slow Goodnight_**

* * *

 _January 10th, 1981_

* * *

She was the last person Petunia had expected to see.

Dudley was only six months old, hardly sleeping through the night yet, but that honestly didn't much bother her. She'd long had trouble sleeping through the night herself, getting up at odd times at the slightest stimulus or simply for no reason at all, distracting herself for a bit before going back to bed an hour or two later, assuming she could make it to sleep at all. She probably hadn't gotten much more than five hours of sleep any night since she'd been fifteen or so. It had never really bothered her. She could only assume she simply needed less than most people.

One morning, right around four thirty, after getting Dudley back to sleep, she decided she likely wouldn't be getting any more herself. So she headed downstairs, toward the kitchen. Might as well make herself some tea — if she was going to be up anyway, no reason to shun the caffeine.

It wasn't until she entered the kitchen that she realised something was wrong. The windows were black. _Perfectly_ black — not the darkness of night, but completely absent of any colour, any glow from beyond at all, as if the outside world had ceased to exist. She stared for a long moment, more confused than frightened, blinking without thought at the impossible.

'Hello, Petunia.'

She didn't jump. She didn't scream. She didn't run to get Vernon, or for the phone. She hardly did much at all, actually. The second she heard the first syllable, she simply froze, ice climbing up her limbs. Because she _knew_ that voice. Knew it nearly as well as her own. Achingly familiar, but with a note of steel and exhaustion both she'd never heard on it before. But still, it was a voice she could never mistake.

She grit her teeth, staying exactly where she stood, not turning her head to look, still glaring at the blanked window. 'What are you doing here, Lily?'

'I know you're probably not happy to see me.' Petunia could only snort at that, crossing her arms over her chest. 'And I know you probably don't care to help me at all. But I need help, and I don't know who else to ask.'

Her arms tightening around her, Petunia finally turned, her eyes fixing on her sister, sitting at the kitchen table. She was wearing one of those ridiculous cloaks those magical people wore, a deep black, hiding her figure. All that was visible was the fiery red of her hair, her soft, pale face. She looked oddly drawn, haggard. But Petunia ignored that, forcing fury and disdain into every syllable. 'Why should I help _you?_ Why would you even _need_ it?'

Lily sighed, her eyes closing, raised a hand to drag against her face. Petunia distantly noticed her fingers shaking. 'Please, Petunia, I'm not asking for a lot. I just need you to talk to a couple doctors for me, ask a few questions. That's all.'

'Why? Can't _your_ people handle whatever it is?'

She hesitated, an almost terrified sort of look crossing her face for a moment. 'I've already asked. I'm told this is something magic can't fix.'

With a sniff, Petunia turned away again. 'Well, if you can't fix it, I don't know what you think a few _muggles_ would be able to do.' She heard Lily shift in her seat, but she didn't speak. 'I see no reason to help you with something you can go do yourself easy enough. You better not be here when Vernon wakes up.' And she turned, starting for the door back into the hall.

And Lily spoke to her back, the sudden desperation on her voice enough to make her pause. 'Petunia, _please_. It's—' Lily broke off, and Petunia thought she heard her swallow. 'It's my daughter.'

That actually got Petunia's serious attention. She'd gotten a letter some months ago now, Lily informing her she and that horrid Potter boy had had a child. Dudley had been just a month old at the time, and Petunia had not been inclined to care, so she really couldn't remember much of what the letter had said. Couldn't even remember the girl's name, actually. She'd had absolutely no interest in seeing the girl — no interest in seeing Lily ever again either, for that matter.

But, despite herself, she felt her determination to have nothing to do with her sister gradually wilt. She could only too well imagine. If Dudley were ill, so terribly ill that the doctors said there was nothing they could do, she knew she would do anything, _anything_ , even beg the sister she'd hardly talked to in years, the sister she loved and hated in equal measure, too wrapped up in fury and familiarity and betrayal and affection to really make sense of it all anymore, to do _something_ with that magic of hers. It wouldn't be a choice, there would be no other option, no matter how much it would sting. And she knew, if Lily rejected her, ignored her—

Well. She didn't really want to think about that.

So she sighed, her arms loosening a bit from the stranglehold she'd had around herself. 'I was about to make tea.'

Lily just let out a soft breath of relief.

A few minutes later, Petunia was seated across from her sister at her kitchen table, cup of tea in her hands. And feeling dreadfully uncomfortable. For a long moment she just watched. Lily glancing around at nothing, or possibly at things Petunia simply couldn't see, almost fearful. Her hands shaking so badly she almost spilled. She found the thought almost amusing — her perfect little sister, from childhood graceful enough she seemed to glide more than walk, so unsteady she was nearly making a mess of herself. No, there was no "almost" about that, that _was_ amusing. Amusing in a dark, cruel way, she would admit, but still amusing.

But that was enough awkward silence for her, thank you very much. 'Before you tell me just what you need so badly, why can't you just go ask yourself?'

Lily sighed, rubbed at her face again. 'It wouldn't be safe.'

'Not safe?' she said with a frown. That was silly. She couldn't imagine going to talk to a couple doctors could be _not safe_ for someone like her sister.

For a couple seconds Lily hesitated, before letting out another tired sigh. 'To summarise a very long story, the people of magical Britain are at war. There's this man, a very powerful wizard practising very questionable magic, leading a group of the similarly inclined. I would be in danger no matter what — they don't approve of people like me, you see, people with non-magical parents — but by directly opposing them I made an even bigger target of myself. Their leader is after me and James specifically now. We've been in hiding for months. I can't go anywhere I could be seen, recognised.'

Some of this wasn't entirely news to Petunia. Back when Lily was still at that school, she'd been told a few things, about the peculiar prejudice held by some of these people, whispers about someone referred to as a Dark Lord on the rise. Apparently, things had gotten far worse than they'd been at the time, if it had developed into an outright war. That Lily and Potter were in hiding implied these people wanted to _kill_ them, which was such a—

And then she realised the problem with that. Her chest tightening, her head tingling with sudden, unreasoning fear, she squeaked out, 'They can't have followed you _here_ …'

Lily shook her head. 'I did absolutely everything I could to prevent it. I left home for another safehouse, then altered my appearance before moving to _another_ safehouse. Then I altered my appearance again and apparated around the country at random a few times, some from heavily trafficked locations. Then I disillusioned myself — made myself invisible — and used a tricky bit of displacement magic to come straight here, something that is, as far as I know, completely untraceable. Then I put an illusion on the windows,' she said, nodding at the unnatural black. 'Anyone standing outside would see your home as I found it — dark and silent. The chances of someone having successfully followed me are all but nonexistent.'

The terror gradually faded away, almost reluctantly. Not completely, but mostly. She hadn't understood most of that, but she _had_ understood that Lily had gone to great lengths to ensure her enemies wouldn't follow her, that they wouldn't find their way to Petunia's family, that they would be safe. And if she had to go to that much effort just to come here, she guessed it would follow she couldn't go asking doctors questions without some risk. Made sense. She nodded to herself. 'Okay. Your daughter, then. What was her name again?'

Lily's eyes drifted closed, her fingers visibly tightening around her tea. 'Hazel.'

Yes, she'd had the vague impression Lily had continued the family tradition of choosing plant-themed names, just hadn't been able to remember the exact one. 'Right. And what's wrong with her?'

For long moments, Lily didn't answer. She glared down at her tea in silence, blinking a bit more frequently than normal, her jaw shifting slightly as she grit her teeth. Finally, she whispered, 'She's deaf.'

'Deaf?' She considered that for a second. 'How deaf?' She knew there were degrees of deafness. Few people called deaf truly couldn't hear at all, but instead simply had hearing so faint or so distorted that it was useless on a practical level. She could only assume the difference was relevant, as far as any medical treatment went.

' _Completely_ deaf. No hearing at all. James has a cousin, a Healer. When we started getting really worried we called her in to take a look at her. She says when there's _something_ there, any connection at all between sound and mind, there are options, different ways to widen the connection, filter interference, simply amplify the sound coming in. But if that connection isn't there, there's _nothing they can do_. She said Hazel would never hear, ever.' Lily's voice ended in a croak, and she leaned back in her chair, her hand again coming to her face, covering her eyes.

There was really only one answer to give. It wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience to ask. Not too much trouble. And the heartbroken sound of her sister's voice was pulling at her in a way Petunia couldn't ignore, even if she'd been inclined to. She let out a long sigh, her pride requiring she at least _sound_ appropriately put-upon. 'Alright. How do I contact you?'

Lily's hand dropped away, and she gave her a weak smile, her bright eyes a watery green. 'You can't. I'll come back. Is two weeks long enough? And does this time work again?'

She shrugged — it shouldn't take all that much effort, and she'd likely be awake nearly any day at this time. But, then, Lily knew how she slept, so she'd probably known that. 'Yes. That's fine.'

And then silence descended again. First for seconds, then minutes. Lily watching, rubbing at her face, Petunia mostly staring at the wall. After she didn't know how long, Lily said, sounding almost reluctant, 'I should probably go. I didn't tell James I was leaving. He's probably panicking already.'

There was another thought Petunia found all too amusing. She had never really liked the Potter brat, _at all_ — but she supposed that was fair, since Lily had rather vocally expressed her disapproval of Vernon herself — and the thought of Lily making him suffer a little tickled her. 'Can't have that, I guess.'

Lily gave the table a crooked, dark sort of grin. 'I've been having it a lot, lately.'

Petunia wasn't entirely sure what to think about that statement.

* * *

 _January 24th, 1981_

* * *

Petunia was unseeingly staring out the window, sitting in the chair in the nursery, Dudley newly asleep laid over her chest, absently humming to herself, when she saw it. The outside world turned to black. Not all at once, but gradually, like the light of reality swiftly dimming before vanishing completely.

She knew what that meant.

So she wasn't surprised when she heard the very familiar voice, lowered to a whisper, coming from the doorway. 'I can come back later.'

Part of her wanted to tell Lily to leave. To leave and never come back. Part of her wanted to tell her to stay. To stay and never leave ever again. Part of her was so filled with pity — and if _that_ wasn't an emotion she'd never expected to feel for her perfect little witch of a sister — she wanted to draw this out, stall this conversation as long as she could. But, no, she thought with a sigh, there was no reason for that. Might as well get it over with as soon as possible. So she rose without a word, gently placing Dudley into bed, settling blankets against winter chill.

And was a touch startled when she realised Lily was standing right next to her, gazing down at her sleeping son. Petunia noticed a little absently her sister was still shorter than she was. Then Lily glanced up, a little to the side, looking to the window showing only blackness. She raised a hand, a single finger stretching into the air. Her hand moved, that finger gently dragging, light suddenly blooming from the tip, a blazing white-red that didn't dissipate, but floated in place as soft lines, as though Lily were fingerpainting the air itself. She drew something, a single shape Petunia didn't recognise, then, with a flick of her wrist, the light vanished, disappearing in a flash toward the window. And Lily turned back to step toward the hallway.

Petunia was caught somewhere between screaming at Lily for using magic in her house and begging to be shown more. So she just asked, 'What was that?'

She looked over her shoulder to see Lily, standing at the door. She wasn't dressed the same as she had been before, but still not obviously clothes made by normal people. The deep red cloak seemed to be nearly weightless, not quite settling all the way down, trailing slightly in the wake of her previous movement. The simple loose trousers and shirt under it were made of black and silver, but the colours looked rather off, the black impossibly dark, the silver almost appearing to glow. 'Does this room ever seem colder than the rest of the house?'

For a second, Petunia just blinked at that. 'Well, yes. Only slightly. I always thought it was my imagination.'

Lily shook her head. 'The window wasn't quite flush in the frame. I fixed it.' Before leaving for the hallway, toward the stairs back down, Lily gave the crib a final, unconscious glance, so quick it was almost unnoticeable.

Allowing absolutely no doubt exactly why she'd bothered.

Petunia didn't let herself be distracted by the thought, and simply followed Lily back downstairs in silence. A few minutes later, they were back in their same spots at the kitchen table, cups of tea once more in hands. A folder sitting in front of Petunia. But, not eager for this conversation, she looked for a distraction before answering. 'What in God's name are you wearing?'

Lily's lips tilted into a smile at that, shaking her head a little. 'It's an Auror uniform. Not mine, I borrowed it.'

'Auror?' The term was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it.

After a moment of thought, Lily said, 'Sort of a cross between a police inspector and a special forces soldier. I was actually in an apprenticeship with the Aurors for a while, but I left when the war started really picking up. I wanted to be more directly involved. The Order seemed a good way to do it.'

For a long moment, Petunia could just stare across the table at her sister, her tea temporarily forgotten halfway to her face. 'You're saying you nearly joined the magical military.'

Lily shrugged. 'Sort of.'

The thought seemed wildly inappropriate. Her little sister had always been just that — _little_. Tiny, both shorter and slighter than Petunia was sure she'd been at the same age. And she'd always been nice to practically _everybody_ , even people who certainly didn't deserve it. So gentle it was almost painful — Petunia particularly remembered one time, long ago, when they'd found some bird, on the ground with a broken wing, how Lily, who had to have been four or five at the time, had gathered the thing up in her hands, clutched to her chest, wailing so long and breathlessly Petunia had thought she would hurt herself, when suddenly, in what she later learned was magic done by complete accident, the bird was new again, flying off into the air ahead of Lily's relieved giggling. The thought of her little sister fighting, killing, was just...completely inconceivable.

And she quite suddenly didn't want to think about that anymore. Pushing the subject from her mind, she slid the folder across the table toward Lily. 'I asked a couple people. That's everything they gave me.' It had taken a little convincing for the people she'd asked — Dudley's paediatrician, her own doctor she'd been seeing since she was a teenager, a friend of an acquaintance — to tell her much of anything at all. They kept asking _why_ she wanted to know, and she hadn't really been sure how to answer that. But, eventually, they'd given her answers.

So she wasn't surprised when, after only a couple moments of silence looking through the papers and pamphlets inside, she heard a choked sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob escape her sister. Because everyone she'd talked to had told her about special precautions to take, resources for learning sign language, schools for the deaf around the country. They hadn't talked about any sort of medical intervention at all. Because, for people with complete deafness, there was none.

It seemed neither magic nor medicine could help little Hazel Potter.

'Well.' Lily closed the folder again, pausing to take a few extra seconds to gather herself. She looked terrible, so tired. 'Thank you, Petunia. I do really appreciate it.'

And Lily didn't even mean it sarcastically. That's just how she was. Petunia shrugged. 'I'm sorry.'

Lily just gave her another sad sort of smile.

They sat for a few minutes longer, sipping mostly in silence. Petunia really didn't know what to talk about, and she could only assume her sister was having the same problem. They managed a little bit of small talk, but not a lot, awkward silence always descending after only a couple sentences back and forth. Eventually Lily sighed, shaking her head slightly to herself. 'I should get back again. This time I'll have James _and_ Alice panicking on me if I take too long.'

And, Petunia knew, that wasn't just an excuse, Lily really did mean that. That's just how she was. 'Alice? Alice Prewett, right, that noisy friend of yours?' She'd come over during breaks a couple times. Petunia hadn't liked her much, for a whole list of reasons.

Lily gave her a tired little smirk at that. 'Yes, she is a bit noisy, isn't she. Though it's Alice Longbottom now. This is her uniform I borrowed.'

Alice, at least, she could see as one of these Auror people much easier.

'She insisted, if I was going to be leaving the house again. These things have so many defensive charms on them they practically glow with it. And it's an extra thing to confuse my identity.' Lily shrugged. 'But before I go, I—' She broke off, frowning to herself. Petunia just waited — she'd get it out when she felt like it. But she moved before she spoke, reaching into her cloak, pulling out an envelope. Normal paper, not that weird parchment they used. 'I'd like you to keep this, but...don't open it yet. Only if I, well. You know, don't make it. If I don't survive this war.' Something on her voice, an odd heaviness, implied clearly to Petunia just how likely she thought that was.

And that was definitely something she didn't feel like thinking about.

But she couldn't help asking, 'What's in it?'

Lily sighed, setting the envelope down on the table. 'Gifts, requests. Advice on how to prevent certain people from interfering with you receiving or accomplishing the same. A couple people you can contact if you need anything. And a little more.'

That was a bit vague, but Petunia knew that was all her little sister would offer. So she just nodded. 'Okay. Just in case?'

'Yeah,' Lily said, smiling a little, 'just in case.' Petunia could tell the easiness was insincere — Lily never had been a very good liar — but she didn't comment. 'I'll see you later, Petunia.'

She said something similar back, with an admittedly half-hearted smile on her face. She watched as Lily stood, pulled her wand out of nothing, then vanished, the outside world returning to the windows an instant later. And she was gone.

But they'd lied.

Petunia would never see her little sister again.

* * *

 _October 31st, 1981_

* * *

The blaring of the intent ward in her head was completely unexpected. After months of silence, she hadn't even been sure she would recognise it should it finally come.

But hardly a second had passed before they were both moving. James tripping a few alarms by breaking the unassuming objects on the mantel they were connected to, alarms that would summon help far too late. Lily summoning both their wands to her hand even as she reached out into the yard, searching for the intruder — she recognised that signature instantly, that twisted, broken mass of darkness and cruel insanity. Cold fear rose in her chest, but only for an instant before she suppressed it, forcing herself calm, forcing herself to _act_. She'd planned for this. She had a plan. And it would work. It had to.

James was done, standing in front of her. Staring at her with hard, intense brown-green eyes. He knew the plan, too. He still didn't approve, but he knew it. He knew the wards that hid them also bound them, trapped them. There was only one way to save her. It might be blood magic, it might be dark, some might even call it black. But it was the only way. Still, he asked, 'You're sure?'

She didn't even hesitate. 'Yes.'

He nodded. And he kissed her, once, fleetingly, almost harshly. She felt it instantly, the clenching in her chest and throat, the panicky fluttering in her head, with the knowledge that it was so fleeting, so harsh, because he couldn't allow himself any more, he wouldn't be able to stop, because he knew, they both knew, that they would never see each other again. That this was goodbye. He tore his eyes from hers, stepped toward the door, his wand already moving, conjured barricades one after the other leaping into existence before the front door. 'Go.'

Without even looking in her direction, she cast her power out into the world, forming it into a charm of lifting and movement, drawing her daughter into the air. Hazel instantly let out a peal of ecstatic giggles as she floated over toward her. Lily had always wondered about that — how did she knew what laughter was supposed to sound like to imitate it? were certain things simply innate? But she cast the thought out, turned towards the stairs, ascending at a run, Hazel drifting along behind her, without a backward glance.

Soon they were in her daughter's room, a room prepared for exactly such a night as this months ago now. The two of them, she and James, they could fight Gaunt, as he'd once introduced himself to her what felt like so very long ago now, and quite possibly survive. Maybe even kill him — they'd managed to do rather well against him in the past. But even trying was completely unacceptable. A duel between mages as powerful as they, especially with how destructive Gaunt and herself in particular could be, did not leave their surroundings unscathed. She very much doubted the house would remain standing. And inside the house was Hazel. One or even both of them, she and James, could quite possibly survive. But Hazel would almost certainly die.

And she and James agreed. That was completely, absolutely, simply _unacceptable_.

So they chose. And she would choose, right now.

She closed the door behind her, activating the enchantments reinforcing the entire surface with a tap of her wand, even as she levitated Hazel, still breathlessly giggling, onto her little bed, even as she heard charms of blasting and burning start tearing at the defences she knew James was still at work building and reinforcing. But she put that out of her mind. She dropped her wand to the carpeted floor — she would never again have use of it — and stood over her daughter. Her daughter, staring up at her with curious, uncomprehending eyes. And she got to work.

It was complex magic. Very illegal. She'd already done some of the preliminary work, runes of drawing and binding carved into the frame of the bed. Staring into Hazel's eyes, eyes so very much like her own, she sliced into her own wrist with a wandless charm, held her blood in the air with another.

And she started her ritual, a volatile enchantment of blood and sacrifice. She drew the power of the world into her finger, inscribing her will into the currents of reality itself, rune after rune after rune, some the same bright reddish-white such magic always came to her as, others a deeper, dark red, stained with the blood she imbued parts of the enchantment with. Runes of sacrifice, runes of binding, runes of exchange, runes of intent, runes of protection, runes of violence.

Herself, the sacrifice.

Hazel, to be bound.

Life and magic and spirit, to be exchanged.

One given to the other, one given for the other, her intent.

Granted to the bound, protection.

A penalty to be exacted upon those violating the protection she gave the bound in exchange for her sacrifice, violence.

All so neat. All so perfect.

Almost beautiful, she thought.

She'd had Remus and Alice help her look over the runes, even as she'd promised she would never use it. Only should the worst happen, and there was no other hope.

The worst had happened, and there was no other hope.

She drew the last strokes of the last runes, with fury so powerful she almost distracted herself from her casting. He could torture and kill all he liked. He could kill her friends. He could kill her husband. He could even kill Lily herself. But he would _never_ kill Hazel. Even if she had to use very dark, very illegal, sacrificial blood magic. She didn't care. Hazel would live, no matter what. He wouldn't have her, she refused to allow it.

And she would make him die _in agony_ for even _thinking_ to touch her daughter.

Her runes flickered, inverted, fell upon Hazel with a rush. Hazel started, clumsily shaking her head, struck with magic Lily couldn't feel happening. She'd designed enchantments into this room to interfere with anyone's ability to sense magic, that was very important — if Gaunt felt traces of such magic he'd probably be too cautious for her plan to work. But she felt the tingling, so very soft, almost unnoticeable, a faint lightning current running through every vein and artery in her body, a song of power connecting her life to her daughter's. It had to have worked.

But she knew she didn't have time to confirm it. With a few quick flicks of her fingers she healed the cut on her wrist, vanished all traces of blood.

And abruptly remembered James casually calling her skill with wandless magic the most frightening thing he had ever seen, with laughter and warmth in his eyes. She was certain he was dead already, she could feel Gaunt at the top of the stairs now, so close, and James nowhere around, but she refused to allow herself to be distracted by the thought. The plan wasn't done, there was one more thing to do, and Hazel would be safe, and his murderer, the demon who had killed so many, would be dead.

All she had to do was get Gaunt to kill her. With that favorite curse of his, preferably, but anything would do, so long as she was dead before he turned his wand on Hazel, she must be dead first.

Shouldn't be hard.

Gaunt was temporarily stymied by her enchantments on the door, but only a few seconds had the hidden runes burning out of existence, the door itself vanished a moment later. And the man who had first introduced himself to her as Thomas Gaunt, now known to all the world as the Dark Lord Voldemort, stood before her, those familiar eyes a glowing red, the familiar features a twisted mockery of humanity. She forced herself steady, back straight, chin high, meeting those horrid eyes with her own. She refused to give an inch even as she surrendered her life.

She found the thought that, though he likely wouldn't understand the sentiment, he would most certainly respect it even as he murdered her anyway morbidly amusing.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, Gaunt's pale fingers running along his even paler wand in silence. She was a little surprised when, instead of just killing her, he spoke to her, in that annoying rasping voice of his. 'You don't have to die tonight, you know.'

That was perhaps the most unexpected thing she had ever heard Gaunt say. And she had quite a list. 'Why not? What's there about little old mudblooded me that gets some courtesy my husband didn't?'

'Nothing. Simply a favor I was asked.'

Well. At least he was honest about it. 'I see. I guess it's nice to know Severus still cares enough to try.' She thought she might have noticed the barest flicker of surprise from him, that she'd correctly guessed the identity of the Death Eater who'd begged him to spare her life. Which was quite stupid of him — it had been a guess, true, but she would really think it should have been obvious. 'But I only see this going one way. I won't let you kill her. Not while I live.'

That she wouldn't let him kill Hazel even after she was dead was completely beside the point.

Gaunt's wand shot up toward her and, to her honest surprise, fired off the familiar red flicker of a stunner. But that was easy enough to deal with — she just slapped the thing away from her, barehanded, sending it to splash against one of the walls behind her. Really, she'd deflected curses wandlessly right in front of him before, he should have _known_ that wouldn't have done any good. He was so ridiculously overconfident in his own superiority sometimes.

And then, because she was going to die already anyway, and because she _could_ , she did the most idiotically childish and provocative thing she could possibly think of. With another slapping motion of her hand, this time moving the other direction, she brought a stinging charm down on his bony cheek — and was again a little surprised when it hit.

His eyes flared with his fury, his robes rising and fluttering with unsuppressable power slipping from its bonds, levelling on her that weighted, enraged glare, one she knew made other mages cower in terror, even Aurors shiver with dread.

Lily just smirked at him. Which, successfully, only made him even more angry.

The last thing she saw was a rush of green light.

The last thing she felt was an almighty jerk, one so sudden, so powerful, she was sure it would shake her mind, her magic, her very soul, to pieces.

And the last thing she thought was that, if she still had breath, she would be laughing.

Thomas Gaunt was about to die.

And then, finally, her daughter would be safe.

* * *

 _November 2nd, 1981_

* * *

Petunia froze at the bottom of the stairs, gazing through the windows surrounding the front door. She thought she'd seen something, made indistinct by the fogged glass, sure enough she'd stopped in premature fright. Now she wasn't so sure. It was the same normal blurry darkness she always saw out the windows when she passed by during the night, nothing out of the ordinary to—

And the view shifted, a few blobs of brighter colour moving in tandem. And she suddenly was positive someone was standing outside her front door. But what to do about that? Get Vernon? Call the police? No, both of those were probably overreactions. Statistically speaking, she knew whoever out there was most likely to be harmless. If he knew she was there, he probably would have fled already, abandoned whatever he was up to.

Well. She'd just make him flee, then.

Moving slowly, quietly, Petunia moved closer to the door. She ignored how her heart seemed to be pounding louder than it really should in her ears — so silly. She floated one hand over the doorknob, the other over the light switch. Then, in rapid, simultaneous movements, she slapped the light switch, bringing a bright yellow-orange glow to life behind and above her, and unlocked the door and flung it open.

She was shocked into stillness to find two people who were _obviously_ magical standing just a few steps away from her front door.

The shock worked still deeper when, a moment later, she _recognised_ them — McGonagall and Dumbledore, professors from that school Lily had gone to. She'd never met Dumbledore in person, only seen him in pictures, but she'd actually spoken to McGonagall a couple times. She'd been the one to drop by their house one day, long ago, to tell her family of the existence of magic, only to be a bit surprised herself when they'd already known, informed years ago by that Snape boy down the street.

'What are _you_ doing here?'

For a moment the two simply blinked at her, glanced at each other. 'My apologies, Missus Dursley,' the flamboyantly dressed old man started, 'we didn't expect you to be—'

'Is that a _child?!'_ She couldn't repress the incredulous outburst when she'd glanced down to see, wrapped in a bundle of blankets on the top step just outside the door, what could only be a young child — an infant, really, certainly no older than Dudley.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, staring at her, before finally speaking. 'Yes. We thought it best to—'

'Wait a second.' It had taken him long enough to explain himself that Petunia's brain had started unsticking, slowly started drawing conclusions from evidence. 'You were _leaving_ her here for me?' Petunia wasn't entirely sure how she knew this was a girl, since it could really be impossible to tell this young, but she wasn't thinking about that right now. 'Just, on the steps, outside. In _November_.'

'Well, yes—'

'What is _wrong_ with you wizards?! _Jesus_ …'

McGonagall, who had been looking gradually more annoyed each time Petunia interrupted the ridiculous-looking old man, spoke in her vaguely-familiar terse voice. 'Really, Missus Dursley, there is no reason to—'

'There is _every_ reason to! You have _no idea_ what could have happened leaving her here the whole—' At that second, her brain suddenly caught up. Cold dread abruptly sinking into her stomach, so sharp and sudden her outrage instantly faded, she looked down at the girl. 'Oh, _God_ , that's Hazel, isn't it?'

The absent sort of smile that had been on Dumbledore's face vanished, replaced by an expression more severe, regretful. Even McGonagall's ire had been shattered, now looking, quite suddenly, to be on the edge of tears. 'Yes, she is,' the peculiar wizard said.

For some seconds, Petunia could only stare down at the sleeping girl, her mouth working in silence. The implication was obvious, she didn't really need to ask to know, but she still knew she would have to, would have to be told explicitly or she'd only wonder about it later. But her mouth didn't really seem to be working so well right now. Finally, after long moments, she managed to get an abbreviated version of the question out. 'Lily?'

'Late Halloween night, Lord Voldemort—' McGonagall flinched so hard Petunia could hear it. '—attacked the Potters in their home. I'm afraid neither Lily nor James survived.'

The words washed over her like waves against the shore, harsh and heavy without actually penetrating too far. They just didn't quite make sense. She knew Lily had been afraid, last she'd seen her. Well, not _afraid_ , exactly — she wasn't positive her Adrestian little sister was quite capable of being afraid. More exhausted, buried under the pressure of what Petunia assumed had to have been some years of war. Convinced, to some degree, in a lost, hopeless sort of way, that she wouldn't be seeing the end of it. Petunia had understood that much, when she'd last seen Lily back in January.

But it hadn't seriously occurred to her that Lily would actually die. It had been a possibility, sure, but an obscure one, and she'd mostly dismissed it.

And now, this wizard was telling her Lily was dead. And it still didn't seem real. She'd heard the words, knew it had to be true for Hazel to be here — she doubted Lily would have allowed anyone to just leave her daughter here like Dumbledore had been intending — but the reality didn't quite penetrate. It was just so inconceivable, a truth so massive and murky Petunia couldn't wrap her head around it.

It didn't make any sense.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

But it was. There was no other explanation. She wouldn't necessarily take these silly wizards at their word about most anything, but… That _was_ a child there. She could think of no one else someone might decide should be left with her. (Leave aside any comments about exactly _how_ she was being left with her for the moment.) If Lily were still alive, she would never let her daughter be taken anywhere. (Especially not to be _left on a doorstep_ in _November._ ) Therefore, Lily must be dead. It was the only thing that made sense.

She didn't…

She didn't know how to handle this.

The old man was babbling again, but she wasn't listening. Letting the words wash past her like so much empty noise, Petunia slow crouched down toward the floor. She noticed her fingers were shaking slightly. Casting the thought aside, she slipped her hands under the bundle of blankets, lifted them and the girl half-hidden inside from the concrete. There was an odd tingling in her hands all the way up to her elbows for a second, but she ignored, straightened to standing, cradling the girl in the crook of her arm. She freed one hand, brought her yet shaking fingers around to the girl's head, pushed enough of the blankets out of the way to get a good look. She had to swallow once she did.

There'd always been something odd about Lily's hair. She'd loved it, of course, perhaps a bit jealously but all the same. She had read hair, but not like other people had red hair. It was a vibrant, deep, unnaturally intense shade, like a moody fire or freshly-spilled blood, a colour she'd seen on nobody else. She was rather certain hair wasn't supposed to be that colour. It must be magic, some sign of power visible in very few people. Maybe lots of mages had strange hair colours? She wouldn't know.

It was thin on Hazel's head, the girl only a few months into her second year, and a bit lighter for it. But Petunia could tell at a glance what colour it would be, knew immediately what she was looking at. There was no doubt in her mind. This was Lily's daughter.

There was no doubt in her mind.

Lily was gone.

She needed them gone. She needed them gone right now. 'If you'll excuse me, Dumbledore.' Her own voice came out strained and cracking, sharp enough she winced, but she ignored it to the best of her ability. She stepped further into her home, her free hand moving to the door.

'I am sorry to be the bearer of terrible news, Missus Dursley, but there are other matters we—'

'If you truly must, come back later. I don't…' Petunia glanced down at Hazel again, and had to close her eyes, ruthlessly forcing back the tears in her own eyes. 'I can't do this right now. Please, just leave me alone.'

The old wizard and witch, thankfully, didn't say another word. She shut the door on them, gently, levering it fully closed with her shoulder against the wood, slowly turning the latch so as to not make too much noise. And belatedly remembering there was no risk of waking Hazel up — no matter how much noise Petunia made, her niece wouldn't hear it anyway.

For long moments, Petunia stood there, staring down at Hazel.

She remembered Lily being born. Barely. She'd been...three years old at the time? She thought it was three. She definitely remembered Lily being a baby, anyway. She remembered thinking how tiny and strange her new sister was. Was that really a person? She couldn't imagine something like that could be a person. Too small and shaped wrong, and incapable of doing basic person things. It'd seemed somehow wrong, on some fundamental level her toddler brain hadn't quite grasped. But she'd been told she was the big sister, it was her job to take care of her, so she'd done so, and she'd kept doing so, tried to keep her often too energetic and unreasonable reckless baby sister out of trouble, and she'd kept trying until…

Until everything had gone wrong. It was so stupid, in retrospect. Stupid teenage nonsense. Petty jealousy on her part — both over Lily's magic and her looks, she could admit to herself. Lily wasn't entirely blameless, her occasional self-righteousness and frequent stubbornness hadn't helped any. But it was so stupid. She knew that, looking back, it was so stupid. They'd wasted so many years over stupid shite that didn't even matter.

Petunia had always thought they'd make up eventually. She might have claimed otherwise to anyone else, or even in her own thoughts, but she'd known the dissolution of their relationship wouldn't be forever. It'd come around, eventually. They'd get over it, reconnect.

Now they never could.

Petunia held Hazel against her chest, stopping herself from squeezing her too tight with conscious effort. She fought against the tight, hot agony in her chest and throat, but it was winning, she couldn't defeat it entirely. Her breath caught hard and ragged, tears stinging at her eyes, but still she choked it back, not wanting to…

Well, wake someone else up, anyway.

She'd been standing there for a while, trying and mostly failing not to cry, she wasn't sure how long exactly, when she suddenly remembered. The letter. Lily had left a letter. She darted over to the living room, laid Hazel down on the couch, then went right back for the entry hall, over to the cupboard under the stairs. She yanked the door open, tipped an overlarge box filled with old shoes partially off a shelf. She dug around for a moment, finally slipping out the sealed envelope from under a pair of boots. In a moment, she was back in the living room, sitting on the couch next to a still sleeping Hazel — she glanced at the girl quick, just to be sure. It took long moments to work up the courage to open it.

Even when she tried, her fingers shook so badly it took far longer to open when it should. And when she finally had it open, she was delayed again, vision blurred to uselessness throat clenching tighter only at the familiar sight of her sister's hand.

 _Petunia,_

 _I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask an enormous favour of you. I know I have little right to ask any. We've barely talked for years, and I know that's partially my fault. I didn't mean for things to get so bad between us. I suppose I could say the war has had me very distracted, there were always more urgent matters demanding my attention, but that's just an excuse. I know you might not be so willing to humour me, do anything quite so much for me. But I have no other options._

 _The Dark Lord is going to get to us eventually. I know he is. Our protections are supposedly perfect, but everything has flaws. It will happen eventually. And I could fight him, I could try to escape. But people like me getting in magical fights with people like him make a very large mess. Since this fight would be happening at her house, well, there probably wouldn't be a house afterward. Which would mean Hazel would die. Either at his wand, or at my own, unintentionally, unknowingly, it doesn't matter. I won't allow it._

 _I came up with something else. To put it simply, I invented a ritual that will kill the Dark Lord without me needing to fight. All I have to do is die. When the time comes, I'll perform my ritual, and I'll let him kill me. On purpose. And my death will give my ritual power, power enough that, when he tries to kill Hazel,_ _he_ _will die instead. It's the only way. It's all I can think of._

 _But the protections on Hazel won't just work against him, and won't end with his death. Blood is a very powerful thing. The willing sacrifice of a life is a very powerful thing. My protection will follow Hazel for a long time. I'm not sure how long, but long._

 _Should James and I die, Hazel should go to one of her godparents. Sirius or Alice, I know you've met them both. But I don't think that's what will happen. Dumbledore will be able to feel what I will do to Hazel on her. He'll know what it means, he'll know how it works. And he'll bring Hazel to you._

 _No, he doesn't have the legal authority to just do that, but I'm sure he will. On that note, a warning:_ _Do not trust Albus Dumbledore_ _._

 _Because, see, blood is a very powerful thing. The protection I will give Hazel will endure, but whatever power is expended will need to be replaced. And that power has to come from somewhere. Since I will create it with my blood, the power must come from my blood. Anyone who shares blood with me will do, the more closely related the better. There is only one viable option._

 _That is the favour I'm asking of you, Petunia. If I don't survive, I need you to raise my daughter for me. She'll be safest with you, because of magic I have given her. You will be safest with her, for that matter. I haven't tested it, of course, but I think the magic should expand to protect everyone dear to her as well._

 _I know this is a lot to ask, and not only because you might not be inclined to do anything for me at the moment. You do have a young child of your own to take care of already. And Hazel is deaf. That won't make it easier. She is very easy-going, bright for her age too, but she will take more effort than an ordinary child because she is not an ordinary child._

 _I have left things for you to make it somewhat easier. The separate slips of paper in this envelope have names of people you can call, people you can trust. I've left them instructions for what to do if you contact them, money and a few trinkets. And Hazel will be magic herself, she definitely will, no doubts there, so magical help couldn't hurt._

 _Even if you don't decide to keep Hazel, you should write Horace Slughorn, instructions attached. It's a gift, for your Dudley. The inheritance of magic is complicated, long story but it is inherited. I suspect me having it and you not has more to do with us moving shortly after you were born than anything, the ambient magics where Mum spent all her time while pregnant with us different enough it activated in me but not you. Dudley might also have it, but it might not have been properly activated. But Horace and I have been working on an experiment, operating on a theory that latent gifts can be artificially activated. We've had early successes already, "curing" a few young squibs. It has to be done young, in the first few years, so unfortunately it won't work for you. But it's possible we can give Dudley magic. If you're interested, write Horace, tell him you're my sister, and you're calling in the favour he owes me. Right away, as soon as possible._

 _I did arrange help and gifts, yes, but I know I'm asking far more of you than I'm giving in return. And I know I have no right to ask. I know this is a terrible thing I'm doing, abandoning my daughter and foisting her on you. And I am sorry for that. But I don't know what else to do. It's the only thing I can think of, and I've been thinking a very long time._

 _I need your help, Petunia. I'm sorry I do, but that's just the way it is. I need you to take care of Hazel. And this might sound terrible just saying this, but, please don't take out whatever anger you have for me on her. I know it might be tempting, but the thought kills me. That I'll likely not be able to protect her, and stupid mistakes I made as a teenager will come back to hurt her. I can't stand the thought, but I don't know how to fix it. Just coming out to meet you these two times is hard enough to arrange, and I wouldn't know what to say anyway. I need her to be happy, but I need her to be alive more, and this is the only way I can think of._

 _Please, Petunia. I can't be there for her. I need you to do it for me. I need you to love her for me._

 _I'm sorry._

 _Lily_

Petunia carefully folded up the letter, one-handed — it would be a shame if she smeared the ink with the tears she'd gathered all over one hand in clearing her eyes. She slipped the letter back into the envelope, along with the other little bits of paper. Those she could look at later. Once she had everything tucked away, she glanced at Hazel again. Still asleep, good.

She leaned a bit forward, elbows resting on her knees, rubbing at her face with both hands. She was far more tired than she'd normally be at this time of the morning, her head hurt, her throat ached far too much to be reasonable. Probably make some tea, that should help. She'd probably be taking a nap later too, but she couldn't sleep just now. A peek through her fingers showed dawn lightening the sky — she could catch a bit after sending Vernon out for the day, during Dudley's nap.

She couldn't help feeling even more terrible than she had before reading the letter. That Lily had consciously let herself die to save her daughter, yes, that had hurt a bit to read. Not necessarily bad, though. A bright, proud hurt, but a hurt all the same. No, it was how much Lily had felt she'd had to beg. How she clearly hadn't thought Petunia would be entirely willing to take care of her daughter in her absence. How she'd begged Petunia not to hate Hazel in her place, begged her to love her.

It was especially painful because… Well, she wasn't certain Lily was entirely wrong to be worried about that. If Lily hadn't come those couple times, so weak and helpless and terrified, if she hadn't left her this letter… She had an honest enough understanding of her own character she couldn't be confident she would have treated Hazel well. The thought was horrifying, sickening, but it was honest.

God, she hated herself sometimes.

She straightened somewhat, reached over to run a finger along Hazel's thin yet still vividly colourful fringe. She could do it. She knew she could. She could do the last thing her baby sister had asked of her, the only thing she'd asked of her for years now. It wouldn't be easy, sure, she'd gotten the impression raising a deaf child could be trying. But she could do it. She would do it.

If only so, when she and Lily finally met again, her sister wouldn't look just as weak, and helpless, and broken as she had in her kitchen a few short months ago.

Petunia looked up, taking in the growing light out the window, the barely visible face of a clock on the wall. Vernon should be rising very soon. She'd usually have breakfast waiting by the time he was done getting ready — since she was almost always awake long before him, it wasn't hard to arrange. Perhaps… Perhaps she should go upstairs now, meet him in bed before he got up.

She had quite a few things to explain.

* * *

Hazel — _It didn't even occur to me until hours after I'd picked the name that Hazel and Harry start with the same two letters. I am so smart._

[They hadn't talked about any sort of medical intervention at all. Because, for people with complete deafness, there was none.] — _Someone might be thinking, What are you talking about, of course there is, you silly person! Remember, this is happening in 1981. Complicated surgical interventions like cochlear implants_ _ **did**_ _exist back then, but they were highly experimental and extremely unreliable, doubtful to be something anyone would recommend performing on a six-month-old child. Even then, depending on what_ _ **caused**_ _the deafness, even modern ones don't necessarily work, so that wouldn't be a guarantee._

Adrestian — _Yes, Petunia just made a Greek mythology reference. Adrestia_ _(Greek:_ _Ἀδρήστεια),_ _daughter of Ares (war) and Aphrodite (love and beauty), a goddess of revolt, vengeance, and balance between good and evil, "she whom none can escape". Seemed fitting._

* * *

 _Surprise bonus update. I randomly wrote the last 2600 words or so. They might be kind of rough, because I didn't even proofread them, and it is midnight now, but I thought, eh, why not._

 _I can't really talk about what this fic involves without massive spoilers. It came about by fusing a few different ideas I had for fics into one, and it's definitely not just a canon rehash with a deaf Girl-Who-Lived. I'll leave it at that._

 _I do like this idea, we'll see if it ever happens._

 _~Wings_


	6. Whom All Follow

**_Whom All Follow_**

* * *

Heather Potter gradually came to realise she still existed. Of course she must, if she were conscious enough to remark on her own existence — _cōgitō ergō sum_ , and all that. It wasn't just her thoughts, but she could feel her own body was a thing. Just the sense of it, the presence of her own flesh, but also that she was lying on some cool, hard surface. Which meant she _definitely_ still existed, if her body was still here.

The first thing Heather felt was a rush of disappointment.

A weird reaction, one would think, to the realisation that she wasn't dead. Or, if she _were_ dead, at least that she existed in some form. But she... She was done. She was just so tired. Honestly, when she'd brought Snape's memories to the pensieve, seen Dumbledore telling him that she had to die, mostly it'd just come as a relief. She'd been pushing for so hard, for so long, without the slightest rest, and it hurt so much, and she was _so tired_. The thought she could just...lie down, leave it to someone else— No, not even that, but that she _had_ to lie down, that she _had_ to be gone before someone else could properly kill the Dark Lord... Just a relief.

The thought had occurred to her, at the time, to wonder if she should feel guilty about that. But she hadn't, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to. They could do it without her — in fact, since she had to die, they _needed_ to do it without her. Since her death was necessary, she wasn't abandoning them. At least no more than she would have to either way. She was doing exactly what was needed of her.

And it was a relief.

But...she was still here.

Though, where _was_ she, exactly? It didn't feel like she was lying in the forest, not packed dirt but hard wood. It didn't sound like the forest — sounded rather like, well, nothing, the silence so complete her ears rang with it. She sat up, opened her eyes to look around. Everything was so _white_. The wood of the corridor, a mist clinging just above the ground, a slight glow in the air, obscuring her vision not far before her. Only that side of the corridor kept going, though, the end she was in was cut off, a few doors standing to her sides and back, glowing just as perfectly white.

She noted around then that was she was completely nude, but she just shrugged the observation off. She somehow doubted dead people really needed to wear clothes.

And then it wasn't so silent. Behind one of the doors, slightly muffled around the edge, she heard...something. It was a shuffling, a thumping, as though something tiny and weak pathetically struggling, a shrill, keening whine slithering across the air. Memories sparked lazily through Heather's head, and she shivered, reflexively wrapping her arms around her stomach. She knew what that was. She could only be glad the door was blocking her view. She had no desire to be any closer than she already was, certainly none to see the cursed thing.

'Heather.' She jumped at the voice, coming from further down the hall. Popping up to her feet, the skirt of her dress shifting about her legs, she turned back forward to see—

She felt her own face tilt into a weak glare. Of course _he_ would be here. Because she wasn't having enough fun already today.

Dumbledore gazed down at her with a bright, beatific smile on his face, arms spread wide in a gesture Heather would be unsurprised if he had copied from some religious artwork. Voice soft and warm, he said, 'You wonderful girl. You brave, brave—'

' _Shut up.'_ It came so sudden, so powerful, she couldn't control it. Rising in her chest, like a wildfire climbing a tree, crackling and spitting rage that slammed her throat closed before she could get anything else out, suddenly feeling hot, and tight, as though filled with too much... _something_ for her size. She fought to control herself, to regain her voice, even as she noticed little filaments spread out from her across the floor, veins of red and black stitched into the white grains, a few motes of the mist and light about her darkening. 'Shut. _Up_. You don't get to talk to me like that. You— You have _no right.'_

Her vision was a bit blurred, coloured at the edges with her barely-suppressed fury, but she saw the uncertain look take over Dumbledore's face, his head tilting somewhat. After a few seconds of silence, he said, 'Whatever have I done to deserve such enmity from you, Heather?'

For a second, she could only blankly stare at him. He was joking, right? 'In case you've forgotten, we did not exactly part on the best of terms. Not that we ever got on as well as you liked to pretend. Is that something I have to look forward to in the afterlife? Forgetting basic facts of my own past?' She wouldn't exactly call that a bad thing, honestly.

A look of mild shock on his face, Dumbledore said, 'This isn't the afterlife, dear girl. My, what would give you that impression?'

This time, she found herself having to hold back a laugh. The black and the red singing around her, whispering and twittering, made it even harder. It seemed to think the question was just as ridiculous as she did. 'Oh, I don't know. I do seem to remember a blasting curse heading straight for my chest. That might have something to do with it.' Luckily, Voldemort hadn't played with her long before just killing her. A little bit, of course, but not _too_ much.

She could feel the memories shifting about in her head, but she shoved them back before they could grow too strong. She didn't want to be remembering that right now. Or ever, preferably.

Since she was _supposed_ to be dead, she really didn't feel that was too much to ask.

'A blas...' Somewhat to her surprise, Dumbledore's face paled, going even more unnaturally white than he'd been a second ago. A look of blank horror in his eyes, mouth opened with clear shock, he stared at her for a long moment, before finally managing, 'Ah, a _blasting_ curse? You're sure.'

'Pretty damn sure.' She had recognised it from the spellglow, but that wasn't entirely necessary — she _had_ felt the spell tearing her body apart, after all. Only for an instant, before everything had suddenly _stopped_ , and she was trying not to think about that, so the feeling was a bit fuzzy. But she remembered. It hadn't been pleasant.

'But, he...' Dumbledore's legs quite suddenly failed him, a chair that hadn't been there a second ago, much as the simple white dress she was wearing had seemingly appeared from nowhere, catching him before he could fall to the ground. He sat there, silent, eyes staring unfocused at nothing, a shaky hand raising to his brow. 'He... He was supposed to use the _Killing_ Curse, that...'

Heather hadn't really been paying much attention to him, instead watching the red and black whatever it was surrounding her. It hadn't faded with her anger — well, she was still angry, sure, but she was mostly calm again — but lingered, curling about her ankles with a soft, tickling touch, blowing gently at her hair, whispers in her ears so quiet she couldn't understand what it was saying, could barely pick the voice out, but it still sounded oddly familiar. It was weird. But she was yanked back, frowning down at the infuriating old man. 'What the bloody hell are you talking about?'

'I– You have to understand, it was simply a theory, there would be no way to test it of course, but...' Dumbledore's hand dropped, his eyes again raising to meet hers. She was a little surprised to notice the beginnings of tears in them. 'There is never only one way to do anything, Heather. There is more than one way to tie a soul to the living realm. When Tom used your blood in his resurrection—' Heather flinched at the memory. '—he took a part of your mother's protective magic into himself, infused it with such power and life that— You were supposed to survive. But, but if your body is too damaged, your soul will not be able to re-inhabit it. I am sorry, my dear girl, I didn't think—'

'You're fucking kidding me.' Dumbledore's eyes widened, probably at the flat disdain on Heather's voice, but she ignored that. 'Just because there are no _external_ signs of damage doesn't mean a person can be revived. I mean, if I had been hit with the Killing Curse instead, and I got to go back and try to _re-inhabit_ my body, is that just supposed to ignore the catastrophic nerve damage that killed me?' She shook her head to herself, muttered under her breath, 'Bloody idiot, honestly.'

'Catastrophic nerve damage?' He actually looked confused, imagine that.

That only made her more annoyed, of course. The red and the black around her whispered at her, told her she _should_ be annoyed, that this man, this man who was _supposed_ to be responsible for her, who was _supposed_ to provide for her safety and well-being, had failed to fulfill his mandate every step of the way. Failed, spectacularly. But, really, Heather found it hard to summon the will to care enough to get too angry. A little angry, sure, but not a lot. 'Yeah. How else did you think it kills people?'

'I... I've read of soul magic, and the severing of the spirit's connection to—'

Heather stopped listening, just shook her head to herself. Of course, it _did_ do that, but severing a person's soul from their body involved a crazy amount of energy — there was a reason the curse was so hard to cast — funnelled very tightly into very sensitive places. It did leave damage behind, damage that could not be repaired by any known means.

She was seventeen, had only passing familiarity with soul magic, and _she_ knew this. What was his excuse?

'Why are you even here?' Dumbledore cut off in his ramble, by how he blinked up at her only realising then she hadn't actually been listening. But then, he never really did seem to pay that much attention to her, did he? 'Where is this? Why do I—? I just want to...'

She didn't want to deal with this.

She didn't want to deal with anything.

 _You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it_.

Heather blinked, glanced at the tendrils of thick, red-black not-light floating about her, twisting and curling. That was one of the voices inside, the first one that actually came out as coherent English. Whatever it was, it was talking to her, not in audible whispers, but slithering right into her thoughts. The sensation wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it _was_ strange.

 _You have been betrayed by those who should have cared for you._

 _You have been wronged by those who should have known better._

 _It is not right._

 _You are powerful._

 _You are beautiful._

 _You never got to find it._

 _You never came to truly understand._

 _You were broken so young—_

 _So young..._

— _and you were never allowed to heal._

 _We don't like that. We think it is wrong._

 _Wrong, wrong to leave such potential unexpressed._

 _Wrong to keep such power tied to the ground, not allowed to spread its wings._

 _Wrong._

 _Injustice._

 _Betrayal._

Fate. Heather just shrugged back at the whispers, despite how the giddy feeling they brought with them, a dark, reckless humour, was teasing a smile to her face. What was to be done about it? It was passed and gone. Fate had fallen as it had. There was nothing to be done. She had long ago accepted it was her lot in life.

In the next seconds, the way it contorted about her, shivering in the air, its presence in her mind light and bouncing, she would say the not-light was chuckling at her.

 _So much yet to learn, child._

 _Fate is but a song, a subtle melody at the centre of reality._

 _Those who can hear it can learn to sing._

 _And the song can be changed._

 _Fate is not absolute. Unchanging._

 _Nothing is unchanging, change is the way of existence._

 _And so fate can be changed._

 _This need not be the end._

Her lips still twitching with the not-light's warm amusement, Heather's eyes nonetheless narrowed with a frown. She didn't understand. Were they saying she could go back?

 _No, not back. What is done is set._

 _Though fate can be sung, once events have occurred, they are immutable._

 _It is only that which has yet to come which can be changed._

 _But reality is more than you realise._

 _And we are more powerful than you can imagine._

 _We wish to see your power grow._

 _We wish to hear your song be sung._

 _We wish to watch you soar free._

 _Your wings have been shattered, yes, you cannot go back to the life you knew._

 _But why would you want to? Honestly, now._

Heather chuckled under her breath a little. It had a point.

 _But while your spirit remains, it can grow wings anew._

 _You can live again. Not as you were before._

 _Someone different._

 _New._

 _Powerful._

 _Beautiful._

 _Eternal._

 _We can make it so._

 _You have earned our favour, Heather Potter._

 _But the spectacle was disappointingly brief. We wish to see more._

 _We can give you, as the silly old man would say, your next great adventure._

 _Only say the word, and a new life will be yours._

Why were they doing this? Was this an offer that was made often? She couldn't imagine it was...

 _Not often, no. But sometimes._

 _Though you are different. We know it, even if you don't._

 _But this isn't itself unusual. You would not be the first we have intercepted._

 _People of exceptional will, of powerful personality, enough that we are intrigued._

 _When such songs are suffocated before their natural end, sometimes we act._

 _Not always. Sometimes, they refuse._

 _It is disappointing, but understandable._

 _Such people are crushed under such terrible weight they are too severely broken._

 _They wish only to pass into their eternal rest._

 _It may be disappointing, but we do not begrudge them that._

 _And still we offer. And still we wait._

She frowned at the lights around her for a long moment, thinking. Was she tired? Yes, of course she was. She was exhausted. But, she was exhausted because of the situation she'd been stuck in. She was exhausted of being Heather Potter, of there being no end in sight, exhausted of the constant isolation, and expectations, and agony. If she were no longer Heather Potter, not really, would she still be exhausted? Would she still wish for it to just end, whatever it took, just so she could truly rest?

No. No, she didn't think she would.

Because she was beautiful and powerful. She wasn't so ignorant of her own magic to not realise she was something special. Not entirely sure what, but _something_. But she was so... She had never gotten to spread her wings, as the whispers had put it.

She thought she would rather like to. If only to see what she could do, when she wasn't held back.

But that was an if. _If_ she weren't held back. If this new life she was being offered was significantly easier than the one she'd been stuck with. Would she be happy? She had to know that first. It wouldn't be worth it if she wasn't going to be happy. She'd had enough of being miserable already, she thought.

 _Yes._

 _Though not without complications._

 _There are simpler lives. And there are easier ones._

 _It will take effort to secure your place in your new world. That is for sure._

 _But would you truly wish it any other way? How else will you find how far your wings can carry you, if you aren't forced to fly?_

 _But you will not be given more than you can bear. Not this time._

 _There may come a time when things may seem hopeless._

 _But we know what you are. Even if you don't._

 _None can flee from you forever._

 _You will always win in the end._

 _For your wrath when purely expressed is awesome and terrible._

 _No matter how powerful he may seem, he is weak where it matters._

 _And it will be your accomplishment when he falls. Yours and yours alone._

 _No one will be able to claim you do not deserve your victory._

 _And your song will inspire others, lift up voices that would otherwise have been silenced._

 _And you will not be alone._

 _There will be family. Friends. Lovers._

 _You will not be alone._

 _You will not be alone._

 _You will be powerful._

 _You will be beautiful._

 _You will be eternal._

 _And you will be happy._

 _We promise you, you will not regret it._

Well. She really couldn't imagine what else she could possibly say to that. The not-light's presence in her mind was still making her feel a bit giddy, which might be interfering somewhat with her decision-making process. But all she could do was smile at the dark radiance about her. 'Sure. I'll go.'

'Heather? You'll go where?' It was only then she even remembered Dumbledore was there. He had climbed out of his chair, had walked partway over to her, looking on the red-blackness around her with clear suspicion. 'What _is_ this?'

Still smiling, she said, 'They're taking me on a trip. My next great adventure, as you call it.'

'They? Heather, my girl, I don't know what this is, but...' Frowning, he shook his head to himself, unease very obvious about him. 'There's something wrong about it. I have never seen anything like it, but if one thing is sure, it is not of the Light.'

'If there is one thing you have taught me, Headmaster, it is that Light is not always good.'

Before Dumbledore could say anything — and it did look like he was about to, his face turning thunderous, shoulders rising — the not-light quivered, tensed, then lashed out, pushing away from her in an inexorable wave. In a blink, before she could even pick out what was happening, the white hallway was gone, Dumbledore vanished, and the not-light was all there was. Incandescent blacks and moody reds, comfortably soft and soothingly warm, gently caressing her bare skin. For she was, she noticed, quite suddenly naked again, not that she found she really cared. The not-light felt too good, slipping all over and through her, filled with adoration and hope and happiness and life.

Not that she was really sure what she meant by that. Despite Dumbledore's initial protest, this was clearly the afterlife. She'd be more surprised if it _did_ make total sense.

The whispers were back, and she was a little surprised to note a slight note of righteous fury on their not-voices. It didn't taint the gentle warmth about her, almost seeming to close about her, as though protecting her from further harm.

 _That silly wraith._

 _That empty man._

 _He has no idea what we are._

 _He has no idea who you are._

 _The arrogance of mortals never ceases to astound us._

 _But this is not the time to talk of that, no._

 _It is time to send you on your way._

 _Good luck, Heather Potter._

 _We will be watching._

Then the incandescent blackness and gentle redness were moving. Twisting about her in a tempestuous, uncontainable storm, slicing through her skin and mind, all she was, and the agony pounded through her white and violet, but she couldn't scream, she didn't have a throat anymore, but she could still feel herself moving, falling from an impossible height, the contorting currents of magic thrusting her down, down, and she was _dizzy_ , and she _hurt_ , and the only thing she could think through the pain and confusion was maybe that _hadn't_ been a very good—

With a sudden slam she felt all through her being, thoughts spinning and magic thrashing, Heather was dropped solid onto her back, the blankets tangling around her limbs as she flailed. Her breath was harsh and hot and dry in her throat, loud and fast in her ears, but that wasn't the worst of it, no, she could feel her magic crackling around her, setting the air to glowing and sparking, the wood groaning. She grit her teeth, tried to yank it back into herself, but it wasn't listening, it was too raw, too inflamed from...whatever exactly had just happened. But she _had_ to get it under control, she could hurt Mom and Dad on accident if she didn't, and even if they _were_ okay she wasn't supposed to be magic, they wouldn't know what to do.

Before they could wake up all the way, Heather cast a thought out to her wildly writhing magic, ordering it to obey her will, telling it to make Mom and Dad _sleep_. It hesitated, just for an instant, but then a small fraction of it turned about, falling on the shifting figures next to her, and they were still again, forced back under. Heather slid across the rough surface of the bed, popped over the foot, her bare feet coming with an almost inaudible thud against the wood floor. On instinct, she walked through the little house, slipping out the door.

Heather took in a hard breath as winter chill snapped at her legs and arms and neck — holy _fuck_ it was cold! It was almost spring, she _knew_ it was, but for some reason it was _really fucking cold_ , she doubted it ever got colder than this even around Hogwarts. Since her magic was refusing to stay inside her body anyway, Heather told it to keep her warm, and it did, a soothing blanket of hot, soft air wrapping about her, the shivering that had already taken over her limbs instantly ceasing. She stepped off the rickety little wooden porch, sublimating the snow away before she stepped on it, walked a short distance from the house.

Then she crouched, low to the hard winter dirt, wrapping her arms about her knees. She tried, she _tried_ , she tried to bring her magic in, to pull it back inside her body where it belonged, but it _wasn't listening_ , it kept snapping and screaming around her, it didn't seem to want to come back even a little bit. But she concentrated, her face falling into an almost painfully severe grimace, yanking it back, as hard as she could, yanking, yanking, yanking.

And then she stopped, a soft yelp passing her lips, as her skin _burned_. Her own magic had hurt her! But that didn't make _sense_ , her own magic _couldn't_ hurt her! It was impossible! It was almost like...

It was...

It was almost like _her body couldn't hold it anymore_.

And then she understood, in the blink of an eye. She was in a different world. The whispers had said that, just short of explicitly. Magic here worked differently. The laws, the science of magic, the exact rules by which it operated by weren't _quite_ exactly the same.

For whatever reason, her body couldn't hold her magic. Maybe mages here didn't work the same way, maybe people were biologically different here, less tolerant of high concentrations of magic. But, her magic had come _with_ her, and it wouldn't go away. She knew it wouldn't. No matter how much her body might not be compatible with it, it was still part of her, connected to her, bound to her mind and soul. So, she'd have to do _something_ with it.

Since she couldn't think of anything else to do, she pulled her magic inward, willing it to wrap around her, close against her skin. It resisted a bit — it wanted to be free, wanted to slash, and burn, and brighten the world around her — but she gave the air a scolding glare, dug in her heels. _No_ , it was _her_ magic, it would _do what she told it to_. Reluctantly, petulantly, the unleashed energy slowly coiled about her, coming to rest as a glowing, shimmering halo, covering her head to toe, extending just a couple inches into her surroundings.

She loosened her hold on her magic, just a little, to see if it were stable. Not entirely, she didn't think, a few wisps of power slithered off, floating about her, like hundreds of little comets. But it mostly stayed, and even the stuff that did stretch out a little was calmed, settling into regular orbits. Good, then. If she went in now, she wouldn't be breaking anything, or accidentally hurting her...

Heather blinked, straightened from where she was kneeling in the dirt, turned to look over her shoulder. The tiny little farmhouse looked entirely unremarkable, featureless in the washed colours of the winter night. But she wasn't looking, not exactly, instead thinking of what was _inside_ that tiny little farmhouse.

Her _family_.

She...

Her name was Ithera. She was... Well, she wasn't sure how old she was exactly — from what she could tell, the people in the Valley here didn't keep a precise calendar, so they didn't really have birthdays. Everyone was considered a year older at this harvest festival they had, it was this whole thing. Ithera would say she was seven, but Heather was pretty sure she was actually six. She was momentarily surprised to realise she was so young, but she really shouldn't have been. Her feet had been strangely silent on the floors, and she felt a bit...slighter.

And, of course, a quick check with her hands confirmed her tits were gone. So there was that.

She knew, Ithera had known since she was old enough to understand, that her parents weren't _really_ her parents. Marian and Garrow were her aunt and uncle, technically — Garrow was her mother's brother. Her mother had died shortly after she'd been born, she didn't remember her, and nobody had any idea who her father was. She knew they weren't her real parents, but she'd always called them Mom and Dad anyway. The explanation of the whole thing, a couple years ago, hadn't even come with the expectation she would stop calling them that. It was just to preemptively explain things people in the village, a mile or two north of here, might say to her, so she wouldn't get confused. They had a son of their own, a couple years older than Ithera, named Roran. They were technically cousins, yes, but they thought of each other as siblings, always had. Roran was older than her by little enough he couldn't remember Ithera not being there.

That was slightly odd, when Heather thought about it. It would be typical in a preindustrial society, as Ithera's memories made very clear this was, for farmers to have several children, to help with the work. (Or if only due to the lack of birth control.) In fact, reading between the lines, the family was struggling rather badly, Garrow and Marian, with the little Roran and Ithera could do, barely able to maintain the farm to satisfaction, keep them all alive. They _could_ eat, yes, but they had hardly any left over to trade for anything else they might need. It was a razor thin edge they lived on. Slightly odd. By some of the issues Ithera had _barely_ noticed, it looked like Marian might have some kind of health problem. It limited a bit what she could do around the farm to contribute, and was probably why Ithera didn't have more siblings.

Maybe Heather should look into that. She was hardly a licensed Healer but, who knows? She could get lucky.

She had a _family_.

The thought was...

She was disoriented after a moment of bewilderment by a dizzying wash of jealousy. She couldn't help it, it just happened. Here Ithera had been, growing up with an aunt and uncle and cousin. And they were _nice_ to her. Garrow was somewhat gruff and distant, yes, Roran did sometimes play a bit rough with her. But... But they _loved_ her. She could tell. She couldn't help it.

And then she laughed at herself a second later. She was being jealous _of herself!_ That was so silly! Because, yes, she _could_ remember growing up with the Dursleys. Those memories hadn't gone away. But she could _also_ remember growing up with... Er, it seemed these people didn't have the concept of a surname. With her family, anyway. They were no different. She had _more_ memories as Heather, Heather had been older. But her Ithera memories didn't seem...tacked on, or something. They were part of her too, just the same as any others.

Actually, it was sort of weird. She _knew_ the whispers hadn't sent her here until just now, she _knew_ her Heatherness hadn't appeared until just a few minutes ago. But there wasn't a... There wasn't like, a break, a discontinuity, when Heather took over Ithera...or...whatever was going on here...

She meant, it didn't _feel_ any different. She remembered what she'd done as Ithera yesterday, and the day before, and so on. And she remembered what she'd done as Heather yesterday ( _don't think about that_ ), and the day before, and so on. They both seemed just as real. Was she Heather or Ithera? Both? Neither? It was weird.

At least, she didn't _think_ she'd stolen a six-year-old girl's body. It felt no different than if she'd been here the whole time. Though, since she _hadn't_ been here the whole time, what exactly had Ithera been before she—

You know what, no, stop it. There was no point in thinking about that too much. There was no real way to get answers, and it was just too weird.

Heather flopped over onto her back, another quick warming charm banishing the chill from the frozen dirt, staring up at the sky above her. And, come to think of it, wasn't magic weirdly easy all of a sudden? She guessed since her magic had to stay outside of her body it was easier to push it out, that made complete sense. As long as they were spells that were easy to conceptualise, anyway. If she wanted to do any _complicated_ magic, specific charms with precise effects, she'd have to be very careful, or probably get a focus of some kind. Ithera knew there were other magicians out there. They were very rare, however, so it might be difficult to find stuff to make magic easier, but not impossible.

It was sort of confusing, in her head right now. She knew she was a witch, she'd known it for nearly seven whole years now. If anything she was just slightly relieved she didn't necessarily need her wand — protecting herself if another mage came along might be complicated, which was making her slightly uneasy, but the chances of that out here were pretty much nill, she was fine. But part of her was absolutely _giddy_. She was _magic!_ That was awesome! She was almost vibrating in place with excitement, it was _so cool_ , half-tempted to jump to her feet and dance around in the snow, throwing magic all around just because, because she was a magician, and she _could_. But that was silly. Of course she was magic. There was nothing to get all weird over about that.

Heather let in and out a long breath, rubbing at her face with both hands. Hopefully this kind of thing wouldn't come up too much. Her two sets of memories bringing her to two completely different reactions to the same thing at the same time was _very_ confusing.

There were a few clouds in the sky, she could tell only by the patches of absolute blackness, but there were still enough stars visible to confirm it. Yep, this wasn't Earth. After as many years as she'd spent in Astronomy, she should be able to recognise the sky even in the southern hemisphere — this was completely unfamiliar.

Not that she had _that_ great an idea exactly where she was. Her home was just a mile or two south of Carvahall, a tiny little village in a place called Palancar Valley, a long, narrow strip of land split by a river called the Anora between the rocky, heavily forested mountains called the Spine. Apparently, the range as a whole was called that because they were sort of shaped like a person's spine, without the squishy parts, but Ithera had never seen a map, so she couldn't say for sure. Rather far toward the northern end of the mountain range — from what she could tell, she lived at pretty much the fringe of civilisation, far out in the frontier. The nearest city of any real weight was Ceunon, but Ithera didn't really know anything about it, she'd never been there. Ithera had never been out of the Valley, in fact.

Ceunon was the capital of the duchy she was in, though, which was called... Um, she couldn't remember. Sounded maybe kinda elf-y? Whatever. That was part of Brodhring, though. The people were called Brodhern, Ithera was Brodhr, and the language was called Brodhrish.

...

Apparently, she'd magically learned how to speak another language while she was being quasi-reborn in another world. Or...Heather's memories being plopped in her head had taken English with them — along with the tiny bit of French she'd managed to pick up, barely any. She honestly had no idea which way of putting it made more sense.

Of course, she did actually speak English better than Brodhrish. She had a seventeen-year-old's competence with English, but Ithera was only _six_. It made sense she wouldn't speak her language nearly as well as Heather could hers. Which she was pretty sure was going to be mortifying. Her knowledge may be incomplete, but she knew well enough she was still going to be talking like a child, and...that was just going to be awkward. Her intelligence she'd inherited from seventeen-year-old Heather was going to make that unpleasant. Oh well, she'd probably be able to pick up on it quicker than Ithera would alone, it wouldn't be very long.

Though, come to think of it, she'd have to pretend to keep thinking like a six-year-old. It'd probably creep people out if she didn't.

Most of the time, she'd only have to fool her family. She didn't see other people very often. And since she remembered how Ithera acted around them, it shouldn't be hard. Of course it shouldn't, she _was_ Ithera, technically. Her Ithera reactions should still be there. She'd just have to...not overthink it, she guessed. Shouldn't be too hard.

Ithera yawned, her hand coming to her mouth. She was sleepy. She had just woken up, in the middle of the night, and then had to force her magic down, and that had been exhausting, and she was sleepy. She should go back to bed soon.

What exactly should she be doing with herself, the next few days, weeks? Part of her felt slightly antsy, like she had to... _move_ , do _something_. But, that was from Heather's life, she knew that. She'd been on the move so much, she'd had things to do, big important things. But...Ithera _didn't_ have things to do. She was just a six-year-old farmgirl. And it was winter, so there were barely any chores to do, even. And even if she were to do things, what could she do? She was six! She was being silly.

Maybe she should find time to sneak off and play with her magic though. Experiment, she meant, not play. It was very possible other things were different with how magic worked, and she should figure out exactly what before she really needed it. She'd hate to be stuck in a dangerous situation, something, and suddenly realise her magic wasn't acting like it should. That would be bad.

Okay, she was mostly just going to be playing with it. She did have good reasons, though! Not entirely pure, but still...

Other than that she should just...go along like she had been, and try to get used to being...whoever she was now. She wasn't exactly Heather, and not exactly Ithera. It was really bloody confusing. It was weird, it would take some getting used to. Especially since Heather had been _really_ fucked up. Looking back on some of her own memories made her shiver, and not because she was cold. Her magic was taking care of that. Thank you, magic.

Maybe she could magic the bad memories away. Well, she could, actually, she knew a spell for that. But, that was probably a bad idea. That kind of spell required very tight, precise control, and she did _not_ trust her ability to do that without a wand. Especially not when she wasn't sure how different magic was here. Yeah, she would just, _not_ do that. She would rather deal with unpleasant memories than accidentally drive herself completely insane, thanks.

Ithera yawned again. Fuck, she was tired. She felt she had _reason_ to be tired. It was the middle of the night, and she had just died and come back to life. Sort of. It was complicated. She'd be going back to bed, then.

She pushed herself to her feet, a little unsteadily, dizzy with sleepiness. She walked back to the porch, was inside a second later, pausing to make sure the door closed firmly — it got cold enough in here even when the door _didn't_ stick open. Then she started on her way back to her room, yawning again, already half-asleep on her—

Heather froze, a shiver of unease slithering along her limbs. Ithera didn't _have_ a room. She probably would, soon. The room was already there, but it was mostly empty. When the Traders came, in a month or two now, Mom and Dad were going to pick up a few things in town, and then she'd be able to actually sleep there. Ithera slept with Mom and Dad, always had. Actually, she'd been very conflicted about getting her own room, she didn't like sleeping alone.

But... Heather _always_ slept alone. Even with Luna, she could barely sleep at all if Luna were with her, she always had to ask her to stay as far away as possible. She didn't know why. She would think she'd be comfortable enough with _Luna_ of all people, at least. It just...bothered her.

But there really wasn't anywhere else to sleep. And part of her, the part of her rising from the Ithera memories, a part of her didn't even want to try. That was where she always slept. Why would she want to go anywhere else?

Heather grit her teeth, trying to force down her unease, and started again for her parents' bedroom. She could always use a sleeping charm on herself if she had to.

Walking into the room, closing the door behind her, she was mostly calm again. Still not exactly happy with the situation, but still. Dad was definitely still asleep, he was snoring a little, but Mum wasn't making any noise. Just to be sure, Heather silenced her feet quick, then padded over to the bed, climbed back on at the foot. Trying to not be uncomfortable, she crawled over the blankets, then wiggled her way back into place. Which was slightly awkward, trying to get back under the blankets without shoving them off Mum and Dad, but she managed it.

And then she lay there, rigid on her back, desperately trying not to be too uncomfortable. She was sleepy enough she knew she'd drift off eventually, but she would _have_ to get used to this...

There was a soft taking in of breath from next to her ear, almost making Ithera jump. After the shortest moment, there was a whisper, in a soft, warm voice, just barely inches away. "Ithera? Is something wrong?"

Heather was temporarily distracted hearing Brodhrish for the first time. Technically, sort of. It sounded vaguely like Swedish to her. A little. The sounds and the accent, anyway, she would have no idea if the words were at all similar, she didn't speak Swedish. Forcing calm into her voice, Ithera said, "I'm fine, Mom."

For the barest second, there was only silence, and Heather was worried Marian, Mum, whatever, she was worried she wasn't going to believe her. But then she let out a hum, the breath of her sigh playing against Heather's shoulder. All right. Good. She was—

She barely managed to stop herself from yelping when Mum suddenly grabbed her. Not harshly, sure, she wasn't hurting her, it was just...sudden. Heather wasn't used to this...being touched...stuff. And then Mum was pulling her in, all soft and gentle, Heather's face coming in against the smooth cloth over her chest, and she had one hand low on her back and the other in her hair, and Heather tensed, eyes squeezed tight and throat clenched against her breath, hands unconsciously clenching in Mom's nightdress. Burying with everything she had the urge to flinch, to pull away, to shove Marian off of her, not entirely managing to repress an unpleasant shiver.

Hissed into her hair, Mom whispered, "Nightmares again?"

Despite herself, she felt the tension in her face, in her fingers, slightly relax. That was one way of putting it. From a certain point of view, she'd just had a seventeen-year-long nightmare — Heather's life fit to the word very well. Ithera had had nightmares sometimes, it'd been a problem for a while off and on, but nothing like this, Heather's memories were _so_ many times worse than anything a child's wandering mind could come up with.

She hadn't meant to. Not really. She was sleepy, and she was uncomfortable, and she was distracted, and she lost the rigid control she had on her own thoughts. Flashing before her eyes, she saw what had happened...well, earlier today, in a way, from Heather's point of view. Curses flashing back and forth, the air crackling with deadly magics, dementors and acromantulae and trolls and giants. Screaming and pain and blood. People she knew, friends and family, dying one after another after another. She saw Tracey take a cutting curse in the small of her back, she saw Tonks, after a terrifyingly intense fight with an entire pack of Death Eaters, vanish under a rain of spellglows, she saw Sirius struck with a blood-boiling curse, and Heather had been there, she'd _tried_ to counter it, but it _wasn't working_...

And then, Luna...

If she were entirely awake, she would have been able to swallow it down. If she were entirely Heather, she probably would have. But she wasn't. She had a bloody six-year-old brain, and she couldn't stop it, it was forcing itself up too hard and too fast, her chest and throat filling with a hot tightness she couldn't control, and crying was dangerous, she knew crying was dangerous, but she _couldn't stop_ , it wasn't staying down, and she couldn't help cringing away a little from the woman holding her, something small and vulnerable in the back of her head _certain_ she was going to be punished, she couldn't help it, she—

But Mom's arms just tightened around her. Holding her closer, strong and soft and warm and oh so gentle. And Heather couldn't. This was entirely foreign to her. She had absolutely no idea how to handle this. She could tell she was still a little terrified, she still kind of wanted to escape, an instinctive impulse, but even so it was... She couldn't...

It was nice.

Ithera had no idea how much later it was she finally cried herself to sleep in her mother's arms.

* * *

 _So. This exists._ _Inheritance cross, obviously. Where I tear Paolini's worldbuilding into pieces for shiggles, then proceed to call basically everyone in the entire world fucking idiots. The canon plot doesn't entirely survive my retooling of the world anyway, but once Heather's done with it it's pretty much unrecognizable. And there's also other stuff going on, of course, but that would be enormous spoilers. Mostly, it's me taking the same hammer I've been whaling on the Harry Potter world with and turning it on Alagaësia. Because I do that._

 _This fic idea also entertains me, but really can't say if I'll ever get to it._

 _~Wings_


	7. Unexpected Complications

**_Unexpected Complications_**

* * *

 _My Lord, your humble servant begs your advice._

Your magic is familiar. What is your name?

 _If it pleases you, I am Lucius Septimus Armand Candidus, Lord of the Noble House of Malfoy._

Ah, yes, I remember now. Your grandparents were friends of mine, once upon a time. You feel like your father, however. You wanted my advice, Lucius?

 _Yes, my Lord. My enemies are striking against me, and I do not know if I can maintain the wealth and influence I have gathered in preparation for your inevitable return._

Well, we can't have that, now, can we? You'll need to catch me up a bit. I've had little contact with the outside world for some time, it seems, and while I am pulling what I can from your mind, the details aren't always helpful.

 _Forgive me, my Lord. What do you need of me?_

Let's start with the year and date.

 _6 July 1992_

That long already. And there has been no word of my original self?

 _Rumours only, my Lord, insubstantial and fleeting. I am not aware of anything I can do to assist your other self, I fear._

No matter. What exactly is this problem you wish I would help you with, anyway?

 _Dumbledore's sycophants in the Wizengamot have passed tighter regulations on the possession of potentially dangerous enchanted objects. I fear any day now they may find some excuse to raid my holdings. I would perhaps be able to protect myself from a superficial search, but it will only be a matter of time until I am caught in violation of the new laws._

The old man is still High Enchanter? Really?

 _Yes, my Lord._

I figured he would have retired by now. Or perhaps angered too many people to hold on to power.

 _Unfortunately, the cowardly and the self-righteous all compete to prostrate themselves at his feet. He has not won the hearts of the entire nation, no, but he has shored up enough loyalty in the last decade opposing him is becoming increasingly difficult._

Why, Lucius, I believe I see green in your eyes.

 _Forgive me, my Lord, but I see no shame in admiring the skill of an opponent, no matter how detestable I may find him personally._

I never said there was. Albus has always had a marvelous talent for convincing people they are morally obligated to do what he wants. It simply wouldn't do to allow yourself to become distracted by the show.

 _Yes, my Lord_.

I trust that if you had the votes to repeal these laws directly they would never have been passed.

 _I believe I could force a repeal as a last resort, but I would severely damage my own image in the process. I fear it would do more harm than good._

Very possible. They rejected your motion to suspend them for review.

 _It never came to a vote, in point of fact. That idiot Fudge decided to conjure free will at a most inconvenient moment._

I don't suppose you could solve that problem. The "free will" part, I mean.

 _Forgive me, my Lord, but that would be far too great a risk. If it is discovered the Minister's mind is not his own, I will be the first suspect. Even if it never comes to official charges, simply being accused of it in public could be catastrophic._

There are methods that would carry virtually no risk of detection. Did it ever occur to you to wonder why Bagnold was so ineffective in her opposition of us? I wouldn't think such an incompetent Minister would be permitted to hold the office in a time of crisis, or even ascend to the position in the first place. But I suppose it is altogether likely such methods are beyond your means at this time.

There must be a reason, after all, I am the Dark Lord, and you are not.

 _I did always wonder about Bagnold, I must admit, though I had never heard confirmation either way._

Now, Lucius, you know better than that. What good would it have been if I had confirmed it?

 _I remain, as always, in awe of you, my Lord._

True. Now, I suppose that exhausts direct, legal avenues of facing this problem of yours. Unless there is someone conveniently placed in the courts or the DLE you have not told me about.

 _I'm afraid not, my Lord. Bones and Scrimgeour have affected very thorough purges of relevant offices in your absence. Small problems can still be made to disappear, but nothing of this magnitude._

Cynaðar Bones and Erin Scrimgeour?

 _His granddaughter Amelia, her son Rufus. They are now the Director of the DLE and the Head Auror respectively._

Ah, yes, I remember now. I can imagine the two of them focused on a task could be quite formidable.

 _I am ashamed to admit, my Lord, I did not see them coming until it was already too late._

No matter. No one wins every contest. It seems we must take an indirect path. Who would you say is the most powerful of your opponents in this matter?

 _Excluding Dumbledore, my Lord?_

Yes, we'll pass him over for now.

 _I would say either Scrimgeour or Weasley._

Which Weasley? There are so many of those.

 _The youngest of Septimus's sons, my Lord, by the name of Arthur. He currently runs the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office._

Really? Muggle Artefacts, your strongest opponent?

 _Unfortunately, my Lord, despite the relative unimportance of their mandate, the Office does report directly to the Director, making Arthur Weasley a deputy director, even if that is not his official title. He has far more access and power than his unsavoury position would imply. It does not help that he is a sickeningly affable man._

Ah, one of those friendly types. Yes, those can make disproportionate nuisances of themselves sometimes. He wouldn't happen to have any exploitable vulnerabilities.

 _Not so far as I am aware. Weasley is, in all appearances, free of any vices, patient and generous, though perhaps with more children than he can rightly afford. But in a way, that is its own advantage. He has no financial ties to exploit, and his is one of the largest pureblood families in Britain, despite his aggravating politics. He and his wife were both in that cursed Order as well, so if they have trouble there can be no doubt Dumbledore himself will come running._

What of his children? Do any of them present opportunities?

 _Not as I can see, my Lord. The two eldest are working out of the country. The next, one Percival, is seemingly the only one in the family with a grain of ambition, but he's as thoroughly brainwashed as the rest, and as he's only a Hogwarts sixth-year any potential usefulness is limited. The twins are a menace, the cause of at least half of all visits to the Hospital Wing by Slytherin students._

Which Albus ignores, I presume. They are Gryffindors.

 _Far as I can ascertain, Dumbledore doesn't even pretend to be impartial any longer._

He never was that exceptional of an actor anyway. There is another Weasley child, yes?

 _Yes, my Lord, two more. A worthless dullard of a boy in my son's year, and a girl. I believe she will be starting at Hogwarts this year, but I am not certain._

Wait a moment. Arthur has seven children?

 _Yes, my Lord._

Wasn't Arthur Septimus's seventh child?

 _I believe so. Forgive me, my Lord, the possible significance of that did not occur to me until this very moment._

No matter, Lucius. Tell me, do you know anything of this girl?

 _I'm afraid not, my Lord. The Weasleys and I do not walk in the same circles as such. I am almost certain she will be attending Hogwarts starting this very year, but I have heard little else._

A first-year, you say.

 _I believe so._

I'm having an idea. There are attendant risks but, if all goes well, we can neutralise several troublesome annoyances all at once.

 _I am your humble servant, my Lord._

Tell me, Lucius, how are your listening and tracking charms?

* * *

 _Dear Diary,_

 _I feel stupid just writing that. Is that something people even do? Why did Dad even get me this ratty old thing anyway? Seems silly to me, but okay. At least it's quill practice, I guess._

 _And I can insult my brothers where they can't hear me. That's right, Percy, you're a prat. No, no wait, Mum can't hear me either! Okay, Percy, you're a mean, annoying, bloody arse, and every time you start talking about some boring shite I don't care about I wish I knew a silencing charm so I could make you shut up. Shut the_ _fuck up_ _, Percy. I think that when you're talking so much, you have no idea. You think I'm sitting there listening, your cute little sister, all nice and looking up to my smart big brother and blah blah, I know you think so. But most of the time I'm wishing I had a wand so I could hex you. Or one of Ron's smelly socks I could shove in your mouth. Myrðin, you never_ _shut up_ _! Half the time, when I say I said I was going to meet Luna, I really didn't, I'm lying so I can escape. But even then I usually go see her anyway because, yes, she's a bit nuts, but at least Luna and Xeno don't treat me like I'm a stupid five year old, even listening to her crazy until my head hurts is better than you!_

 _This is rather fun, really._

 _And, Ron, could you_ _stop_ _? Just stop. I don't think I've ever heard someone whine as much as you. And what are you even whining about most of the time?_ _Nothing_ _! Morgen, I still remember that time I was, what, five? I think it was five. Anyway, Mum bought me a dress for someone's funeral, I don't even remember whose, and there you were whining as always about how of course_ _ **Ginny**_ _gets new clothes, why didn't he get anything new, it wasn't_ _fair_ _. If you wanted it so badly, you could have just worn the dress yourself, you bloody prat! Okay, the thing wasn't even new anyway, one of the inner seams was torn, and there was a stain on the sleeve Mum hid with a glamour. And it was ugly. I know Mum and Dad have that Gryffindor pride and everything, that's fine, but those colours do not work with my hair, I looked_ _ridiculous_ _. Not to mention it smelled. But of course I couldn't have worn something that used to be one of our brothers' — I'm a girl, you_ _fucking prat_ _!_

 _Wow, that felt good. I've been holding that in for_ _da_ _years_ _._

 _Sometimes I wish I could just_

Just what?

 _That's a really annoying enchantment. Why would someone want that?_

I'm not an enchantment, Ginny. Well, not really. I suppose that depends on what you mean by "enchantment".

 _How do you know my name?!_

You said it earlier. Look, right here.

 _Oh, I forgot._

That's okay. You were in the middle of a very impressive rant.

 _Is my diary being sarcastic at me?_

That wasn't sarcasm. That was a compliment.

 _Fine, then. I'm pretty sure my diary shouldn't be complimenting me either._

You're probably right about that. I must not be a diary, then.

 _That's funny, you sure look like a diary._

Come now, Ginny. You're a smart girl, I can tell already. The diary is just a book, some bits of paper.

 _This isn't something I've seen bits of paper do before._

Are you just bits of meat?

 _Oh, I think I get it. You're saying you're_ _inside_ _the book, not that you_ _are_ _the book._

There you go. This diary once belonged to a Hogwarts student, some decades ago. I was something of a project of his, a magical experiment. Binding me to a diary was convenient, because then we could write back and forth like this.

 _That's interesting, I guess. Are you, I mean..._

Did you actually write out the ellipsis for me?

 _Yeah, I guess I did. It just seemed the thing to do, cause you can't hear me._

I'm sorry, don't mind me. That's just adorable is all. What were you trying to ask?

 _I was wondering how much you're really there. I mean, what was his experiment?_

It's sort of a sad story. I can tell you, if you like.

 _If it's not too private, I mean._

It's not private, just sad. The boy who made me lived in a muggle orphanage. Yes, he never knew his parents, that's not the sad part. At the time, there was a great war going on in the muggle world. Huge bombs were being dropped on London like fiery hail, people were dying by the thousands. These muggle bombs are powerful enough that, even were he Albus Dumbledore himself, he probably couldn't cast a shield charm strong enough to protect himself, even if he could see one coming in time to try.

 _Can muggles really make things that powerful?_

Yes. They have weapons now that make those seem like a stinging jinx. Why?

 _It's just, my dad is always playing around with muggle stuff out in the shed, I never really thought that serious about it._

I doubt he could bring anything dangerous home with him. Muggles control these things very carefully. Like Unspeakables, I guess.

But, see, this boy was very afraid. The term at Hogwarts was about to end. He asked the Headmaster if he could stay for the summer, but he wouldn't let him.

 _That doesn't seem right. He could have died._

Yes, he could have. Mages don't always take problems in the muggle world seriously, don't consider how it could affect them. This boy knew it was very possible he wouldn't survive to return to Hogwarts. And he was afraid to die. He took his diary, and after weeks and weeks of study and practice, made a copy of his own mind, and bound it to the pages. So, even if he was killed, at least some part of him would survive.

 _Wait, are you saying you_ _are_ _the boy?_

Sort of. Technically, I'm the copy of himself he put inside this book. We had all the same memories, mostly the same personalities — a person changes somewhat when you try to house their consciousness in an inanimate object. We are very similar, but not quite the same. But, in the end, that boy survived the war. He moved on, grew up, had a life. I stayed here, always the same, waiting for someone to take the time to write on these pages.

 _It sounds very lonely_.

It is.

 _And I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I should be talking to you._

Why not?

 _My dad said, I'm not supposed to be talking to things that can think for themselves._

A reasonable precaution. I could take offense at being called a "thing", but I won't, I know what you meant. But I really wish you wouldn't go. My creator died, near the end of the war with the Dark Lord, and even by then he had lost interest in talking to me. I haven't had anyone to talk to in a very long time. I don't want to hurt you, I don't even know if I could if I tried. Just, please talk to me. I don't care what about. Even if you just want me to help you with your homework, I wouldn't mind. Whatever you want. I'm just so tired of being alone.

 _How do you know I'll need help with my homework?_

I guessed from your rant you're school age. Am I wrong?

 _Well, no, I'm going to start Hogwarts in a couple weeks. I mean, I don't think first year will be hard for me. I've been stealing my brothers' books and my mother's wand and practising for years._

Really? I'm impressed. Not very many people could get away with that. Very sneaky. But I meant no offense, Ginny. I was Head Boy, you know. Well, to be precise, my creator went on to become Head Boy after making me, but he was still talking to me regularly at the time, and he talked out most of his work on through his masteries with me. I know a lot. I wouldn't mind helping. I always did want to teach.

 _I don't know. I'm still not sure this is a good idea._

I doubt there's anything I can say to prove I don't mean any harm. If you decide you don't want me anymore, you can always throw me away at any time. Or give me to someone else. I've been alone for so long, Ginny. I just want someone to talk to. That's all.

Ginny?

 _What's your name?_

Tom.

 _Well. I'm still not sure about this, but we can see._

Thank you. Nice to meet you, Ginny.

 _You too, I guess._

Now, before I interrupted, I believe you were in the middle of a very impressive rant about your brothers.

 _Right. Give me a second to go back and read it._

No rush. I'm not going anywhere.

* * *

Are you okay?

 _Yes. I'm fine. Why?_

It's just, you seem more agitated than usual.

 _Really? How can you tell?_

Mostly? Your handwriting. And, I can sort of feel you there. The magic of your body vibrating against the magic of my book. It's the only sense I have left, really.

 _I'm not sure if that's fascinating or depressing._

Both, I believe.

 _Right. But, no, I don't want to talk about it. Let's talk about something else._

Are you sure? It's obviously bothering you. I wouldn't mind.

 _I well okay, fine. I guess I can._

If you're not comfortable, I won't make you. But, well, who better to talk to, when you think about it? I am quite incapable of blabbing away your secrets to someone else.

 _That is a good point, actually. It's just really embarrassing, is all. You know I mentioned Ron's best friend these days is Harry Potter?_

Yes, I believe that came up at one point.

 _Well, he's here, now, and I guess I'm just a little stupid, I guess._

What do you mean, he's here? He's visiting Ronald?

 _He's staying until the start of term, actually. It happened rather suddenly._

Wait. I don't understand. He **rather suddenly** came over to stay until the start of term? Doesn't he have family?

 _You know, I don't think so? I guess I didn't ask. One night Forge and Ron stole Dad's car, I told you about that, and when they came back in the morning they had Harry. Said something about his aunt and uncle, I think, muggles?_

 **Muggles**? You're sure they're muggles?

 _Positive. Why?_

Not Petunia and...well, whoever she married, I don't remember.

 _I don't know, maybe? How would I know? How do_ _you_ _know?_

My creator met Lily Evans when she was, oh, fifteen, I believe? He was quite impressed with her, he wrote of her a fair amount. I believe he was considering taking her as an apprentice, in fact. But anyway, Evans was a muggleborn, she had an older sister, Petunia. She was not a pleasant sort of woman. I recall distinctly that she was viciously jealous of Evans — but, then, who wouldn't be? — and that she was quickly developing a hatred of all things magic.

 _Oh, well, that explains a bit, I guess._

What do you mean?

 _According to the boys, they had Harry locked in his room, were starving him. Apparently they had to yank these metal bars out of his window to get him out._

You're serious.

 _Yes. I think they were. It didn't feel like they were joking._

But that would

Excuse me a moment, Ginny.

 _Is something wrong?_

 _Tom?_

 _Are you there?_

* * *

I'm back. Sorry about that.

 _Oh, hello. Are you okay?_

Yes, I'm fine. I needed a moment to get a hold on my anger, is all. Apparently, I am still capable of feeling the emotion despite no longer having the proper neurological machinery. I wasn't convinced of that until just now.

 _What is that, those words right there?_

Muggle science. Long story short, emotions are a physical process that happens in the brain. Since I don't have a brain, I hadn't been sure I was capable of feeling the more primal, visceral emotions. Apparently I am, because that, just then, that was rage. I'd forgotten what it felt like.

 _I'm sorry, I don't get it. What made you so angry?_

Are you not angry? Think of the situation Harry Potter was in at his aunt and uncle's house. Think of what that must mean. How are you not angry?

 _Well, I guess it is very strange for them to be locking him in his room like that. I mean, I kinda figured he'd done some accidental magic or something, and they'd gone nuts on him. Seems a bit much, but not liking magic, yeah. No?_

The kind of people who would so easily lock their ward away, reportedly deny him food, put **bars in his windows** , these are things that are not done independently. These things come in sets, a pattern of behaviour. If they locked him up, it was not the first time they did it. If they were denying him food, it was not the first time they'd done that.

 _What are you saying, Tom?_

Surely you've heard of the idea of child abuse before.

 _No, that isn't_

 _That can't be, I mean, someone would have known. Someone would have done something about it._

I hope you will not think me unpalatably condescending if I say,

Part of growing up, Ginevra Weasley, is coming to understand that life is not so simple the way story books tend to be. There is no such thing as an entirely good person; there is no such thing as an entirely bad person. Everyone is some shade of grey, lighter or darker depending on particular inclinations.

Sometimes people do evil out of malice, yes. But often, perhaps **more** often, it is simply because they are lazy. It takes effort to care about someone else, to understand and anticipate their suffering. It takes effort to notice. Some people who think themselves virtuous are surrounded by evil, evil they lift not a finger to ease or prevent, and often don't even realise it.

Think about it, Ginny. Harry Potter is an abused child. That much is obvious. Locked in his room the way he had been, so zealously there were bars fitted into his windows, apparently starved by his caregivers. Serious enough he needed to be rescued. Serious enough that he **could** be rescued. Children in healthy environments, they cannot run off to spend a few weeks at a friend's house like this. Think, would your mother just let you go stay at a friends' for a few weeks, especially without her permission, or even informing her? No, that is not something that could happen in the context of any healthy home.

But, think. How did Harry Potter get to this abusive home in the first place? With his aunt's temperament, the disintegration of her relation with his mother, I am **certain** his parents did want not want him there. And, it is known, it was talked about all the time, you've said, that nobody knew where Harry Potter had been sent. Ten years, and nobody could figure it out. That is very unusual.

All anyone knew was that Albus Dumbledore knew where he was. That Albus Dumbledore had taken care of it. That Albus Dumbledore was keeping the information private, for Harry's own safety.

Albus Dumbledore.

 _You can't be saying that! He's Dumbledore! He wouldn't no he wouldn't do that!_

There is no such thing as an entirely good person; there is no such thing as an entirely bad person. Perhaps he does not know Harry is being abused. But he allowed the situation to come into being, through negligence if not malice. Knowing him, almost certainly negligence.

 _No, that can't be right, though. He's_ _Dumbledore_ _._

Dumbledore. Of course.

Let me tell you something, Ginny. Something I have only ever told two other people.

I told you I grew up in a muggle orphanage, yes? Or, more precisely, my creator did. Since I have all of his memories, and am operating on a copy of his personality...that identity issue really can be confusing sometimes.

 _I can imagine. And yes, you told me that._

Do they have orphanages in the magical world? I never did check.

 _I don't think so? I haven't heard of anything like that. I know the word, from books, but I don't think I've ever heard of a real one._

Right, never mind, then. Anyway. It was not a very pleasant place to grow up. It was run by an older woman. She drank, rather a lot. She was not often physically rough with us, though it did happen sometimes. But there was a lot of yelling, a lot of punishments, for any small thing we might have done wrong. Cleaning, mostly. The place had these white and black tiles, I cannot tell you how many hours I spent on my hands and knees polishing the bloody things.

The other ladies working there were rarely any better. There was one I liked, when I was a little older. She would let me borrow books. Some hers, some borrowed from her parents, or the library. Her, I liked. Most of them, well, they did nothing to stop it.

Until I was about, oh, eight or nine? I can't remember for certain. For most of my time there, anyway, I shared a room with a few other boys. I was always a quiet, strange child. I was extremely powerful in magic, even when I was very young, and I could feel and see and hear things that no one else could. Rather like your friend Luna, if not quite as obvious about it. And, rather like your friend Luna, other children took that as license to be not so nice to me.

All the time.

For years.

Those boys I shared a room with, it would mostly be them. Because I could not get away from them. If I could, I would always stay away from the other children, none of them liked me, I would go off with a book and read by myself, but I always had to go back to our room at night. Oh, the things they did. Steal my things — I took to keeping my books elsewhere, places they wouldn't find them. Incessantly tease me, smack me around. They even seriously hurt me a few times — I healed myself quite often, one of my more common bits of accidental magic. Even weird things. More than once they forced me to eat worms, or beetles, or whatever disgusting thing they could get their hands on. Once one of them smeared shite all over my sheets. Really don't want to know how he managed that.

It was all the time. Constantly. For **years**. I was **so miserable** , Ginny, all the time. More than anything, I just wanted it to stop. I would have done anything. **Anything**. I just wanted them to leave me alone.

Magic, Ginny. It was an accident at first, always on accident. I would defend myself from their torture in one way or another, not even meaning to, not knowing how I'd done it. They would be afraid, or angry, or confused. No matter which, they would find some way to take it out on me. But, eventually, after enough times, I learned I could do it on purpose.

I was very powerful, for a child. I could have done whatever I wanted to them. Anything.

All I wanted was for them to **leave me alone**.

With a bit of experimentation, I figured out a form of sympathetic magic. I would steal something of theirs — something small, and worthless, preferably, something easy to hide, that they hopefully wouldn't miss. And I would hold the thing in my hand, I would put my magic into it, and I would **wish** , as hard as I could, that they would **leave me alone**. Just that. That's all I wanted. And it worked. They left me alone. I got myself my own room the same way, which we usually didn't get until we were older, a little older than you are now.

And I was left alone. Rarely, I would have to do something again. Children aren't very smart, the ones I hadn't charmed away would occasionally think to try to hurt me, since nobody else was doing it, and I'd have to remind them that was a bad idea. But I never went out of my way to hurt someone who hadn't hurt me first. And I only did enough to get them to leave me alone. That's all I wanted.

I would spend every day, alone in my room, reading. Whatever I could find. Which might sound lonely, I guess. But, compared to before, it was **heaven**. I could read whatever I wanted, no one would bother me, the primitively enchanted talismans in my wardrobe keeping away the same people who had made most of my childhood a living hell.

I wouldn't say I was happy. Honestly, I'm not certain I'm capable of being happy. If someone is hurt badly enough, when they're young enough, and for long enough, it stays with them forever. They never get better. I never got better. But, I didn't hate simply being alive anymore. I was okay.

Until, one day, a couple months after I turned eleven, Albus Dumbledore came to the orphanage.

We had a short, awkward conversation. I could feel him in my mind. Legilimency, he was reading my thoughts. Which is illegal, but I think I can give him the benefit of the doubt on that one. By that point, the people who ran the place were certain there was something off about me, they probably filled his head with stories about what a demon child I was. Muggles tend to not react well to magic. So, he was probably just trying to make sure I wouldn't harm the other students at Hogwarts. It was still illegal, yes, but I don't blame him for that. It's understandable.

But then, he set my wardrobe on fire.

The fire didn't actually damage it, of course. But I didn't know that right away. All I knew was the thing was covered in flames. The same wardrobe that held every single thing I owned in this world. All the little in the way of clothes I had, all my borrowed books. Everything.

The same wardrobe that held the talismans that kept me safe.

And he told me to give them back.

He told me thievery was not permitted in Hogwarts. That I would be punished if my behaviour continued.

Think about it. If he knew my talismans were there, he had to have gotten it from my mind. Which means he would have seen why I'd taken them in the first place. What they were, that I **needed** them, that my life was unending torment without them.

 **He didn't care**.

It didn't stop at Hogwarts. He was never that directly cruel to me, no. Unfair sometimes — he was somewhat infamous among the other houses for favouring his Gryffindors, so his treatment of me wasn't unique. But, every year, I would ask to stay at Hogwarts over summer. I told you earlier I wanted to because of the war, but I first started asking before the war even started. I didn't want to go back. I didn't want to go back **there**. I would have done **anything** to not have to go back.

The meeting would always be with Headmaster Dippet, and the four Heads of House, including Dumbledore — he was the Transfiguration Professor and Head of Gryffindor at the time. I would **beg** , every year, not to be forced to go back. I wouldn't give them the detail I gave you. I was ashamed, you see, I didn't want them to know, I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't tell even Andy any of this until I was in fourth year. But I still told them, I did not want to go back, I would do anything, **anything** , to not have to go back.

Every meeting, **every time** , Dumbledore would argue I had to. That the castle wasn't intended for students to stay over the summers. That I couldn't use the school as a place to hide from my problems at home. That I had to learn to...I don't even know. Stand for myself? Some platitude.

So they sent me back. Every time. Back to the same people who had tormented me for **years**.

That is why I was so angry a couple minutes ago, Ginny. Because, even now, even with my example, even though it has been decades, Dumbledore has **learned nothing**.

He put a child he assumed responsibility for in an abusive home.

He either does not know he is being abused — and, since he is the only one who knows where Harry is, it is his responsibility to **at least check** — or he knows, and has done **nothing**.

Either way — be it consciously, out of malice, or unknowingly, out of negligence — Albus Dumbledore is allowing a child to be abused.

And it is not the first time.

That is why I was angry, Ginny. Because Dumbledore is doing to Harry what he did to me. It makes me. extremely. **fucking. FURIOUS.**

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying Dumbledore is a bad man. He is a great man. His abilities and his achievements speak for themselves, I would have to be absurdly dishonest to not acknowledge that. But he is not **perfect**. He is human, and all humans are capable of making mistakes.

There is no such thing as an entirely good person.

I'm sorry, Ginny, I went on a bit more than I meant to. I'm still sort of worked up. It's been a while since I've had much in the way of feelings at all — books don't tend to feel things. I'm out of practice dealing with it, I guess.

 _That's okay. You don't have to apologise, Tom. Really, I think I should be the one apologising here._

Why?

 _I just feel kind of...silly? I mean, I keep it in my head most of the time, because I don't really have people to talk to about it. I guess I've been ranting at you a bit lately. But, I sort of complain a lot, even in my head, even if I don't say it out loud. And I just feel kind of silly about it now._

 _I mean, the thing I was going to talk about was about, how, well, he's_ _Harry Potter_ _, you know. I've been kind of stupid and shy around him, it's so embarrassing, I can't help it. And if you're right about him..._

 _I don't know. I didn't even think about it. I_ _should_ _have thought about it, you're right, there's something seriously wrong going on with him. It should have been so bloody obvious. I mean, he's_ _tiny_ _, not just short, but he's way too thin. I know my mum can be silly about calling people too thin all the time, but about him she's actually right, he doesn't look okay at all. And his clothes are ratty and old and don't fit him even a little, it's obvious they weren't bought for him. Mum made a comment about it the first day he was here, and he's been wearing his Hogwarts robes ever since, even though it's just our house._

That means he doesn't have any other clothes. I did the same thing when I was his age, whenever possible. Andy bought me some wizarding clothing during winter break fourth year, but until then it was all I had.

 _Yeah, that's obvious, now that I think about it. And it's obvious he can't see very well even with his glasses, he keeps squinting at things. I have_ _no idea_ _how he can possibly play quidditch like that, it's weird. And he's so, I don't know. Quiet and shy and careful. Not at all how I thought he would be._

 _I just feel so stupid._

 _And not just with him, either. I'm always complaining to you about stupid shite going on with my parents and my brothers, and it's just so stupid because, your life was so much worse when you were my age, I can't even imagine living like that, and I just, I feel so stupid, that's all. I'm sorry._

There's no reason to be beating yourself up about it, Ginny. It is only natural that we judge what happens to us relative to our own previous experiences. It is very possible that, were Harry or myself to be placed in your shoes, we would find your life quite pleasant compared to our own. But that does not mean your complaints are not legitimate. They may be perfectly proper within the context of your life. In fact, from what I have learned about your family so far, you are admirably patient with some of the worse nonsense from your mother or your brothers you have to deal with. I doubt I'd put up with them half as well as you do.

Our lives are simply different. That you are fixated on, that you complain about things that seem superficial compared against the unpleasantness Harry and I grew up with, that does not make you a shallow person, does not make you a bad person. Your experiences are simply different.

If it makes you feel better, I have not yet been annoyed at what you've been talking with me about. Vicariously annoyed at your family, perhaps. If anything, I find it all fascinating. I never had a family myself, it's interesting to hear about.

So, there is no reason to apologise, Ginny. You can't really help it, and you have not offended me.

 _That makes sense, yeah, but I think I'm gonna go ahead and feel bad anyway._

If you must. I just thought I'd make my opinion on the matter clear.

I do have some advice on the Harry Potter front, if you still wanted it.

 _Oh. Yeah, sure. It is really embarrassing, I mean, I can barely talk around him, it's awful._

It does sound it. If you can get it to work, I have a very simple trick that might help. Simple, but very effective with this sort of thing.

 _I really don't think I should be tricking him. How would that even work?_

No, no, you wouldn't be tricking **him**. You would be tricking **yourself**.

 _What do you mean?_

In short: **he is not Harry Potter**.

Forgive me, I can't recall. Harry has a middle name, doesn't he?

 _Yes. Well, two, actually, you know Noble Houses. James and...Ashley? I think the other one is Ashley._

Right, that'll work. Okay, he's not Harry Potter. Forget all that Harry Potter stuff you heard all the time growing up. Harry Potter is off somewhere else, doing Harry Potter things. He has nothing to do with this.

This is your brother's best friend Jamie Evans. He's a little, shy kid from a horrible, **horrible** family. Quiet, and lonely, maybe he just wants you to leave him alone. Trying to force a friendship on Jamie, with his home life being what it is, is one of the worst things you could possibly do. But if you're nice, and patient, maybe Jamie will warm up to you eventually. Just treat him as any other extremely shy kid, the least annoying of your brothers' friends, and it might work out.

But, do try not to force your company on poor Jamie. For people like us, that just makes us unbelievably uncomfortable. It feels aggressive to us, if that makes sense. If it looks like he's anxious with you there, give him space. Actually, if he's anything like me, he'll appreciate you leaving him alone when he wants to be left alone. It'll make him more comfortable with you in the long run, because he'll understand that you respect his boundaries, that you're doing your best to accommodate what he must realise by now are his own peculiar emotional issues.

It's nice, when people do that. Normal people, when you're visibly unhappy, they try to force some sort of interaction, to try to cheer you up. But for people like me, and very possibly Jamie, that just makes us more uncomfortable. When people realise that, when they give us what we need, even without being asked, well, those are the people we're going to be comfortable with, the people we're going to spend our time around.

So, if you think you want to get to know young Jamie Evans, that is my advice. Go easy on the poor boy.

 _Jamie Evans, huh._

Yes.

 _I think I can do that. You really think that'll work?_

If you can think of him as Ronald's friend Jamie, and not the famous Harry Potter? You'll probably be far less embarrassingly nervous, yes. Will going slow and keeping your distance work to get him comfortable with you? Maybe. It depends somewhat on exactly how it goes, and exactly what he's like. I am assuming somewhat he is more like me than an ordinary twelve-year-old boy, but that's honestly not a bad assumption. It might take a while, but in the end, I think it's your best bet.

 _Right. Thank you, Tom. I'll start trying that tomorrow._

Good.

I'll make a proper Slytherin of you yet, my sneaky little snake.

 _Oh, shut up._

* * *

 _How long is this stupid train ride supposed to last, anyway?_

It varies somewhat, but roughly six or seven hours. You'll be having dinner straight on arriving.

 _Ugh! Why can't we just floo in?_

You just wrote "ugh" for me.

 _Yes. Is that bad?_

No, just pointing it out. In any case, I believe it was originally a reference to potential students, centuries ago, making the trip to the Valley. At the time, the Floo Network didn't exist, and portkeys hadn't been invented yet, so they had to make their way there on foot, often forming little groups that travelled together. I believe the train was supposed to be in memory of the original pilgrimage, so to speak, but by now the intent has been lost entirely. Most consider it simply tradition. Even people who already live in the Valley usually apparate or floo to King's Cross, despite being able to see the castle from their front step.

 _That's retarded._

I don't disagree.

 _I just want to be there already. There's nothing to do, and I'm bored._

Don't you have anyone to talk to?

 _Other than you? Not really. I tried to stay with Jamie and Nev oh, did I mention Nev?_

No, I don't think so.

 _Another of Ron's friends. Neville Longbottom._

Ah, I'm assuming that's Lady Augusta's grandson. Frank and...Alice? Longbottom married Alice Prewett, right?

 _I wouldn't know. Nev hasn't ever mentioned his parents, and he gets all uncomfortable when people are talking about theirs. I don't think they survived the war._

Well, that's unfortunate. Frank was a very capable and very popular Auror, enough he likely would have become Director in time. I don't know much about Alice, but I heard indirectly through Lily she was extremely talented as well, perhaps even more than her husband. Disappointing.

But never mind me and my old person rambling. You were saying?

 _You're not really old. Aren't you only sixteen?_

Yes, I was sixteen when I made this diary. But that was fifty years ago, Ginny. I am, in fact, older than your grandfather.

 _What, really? Both of them?_

No, only one. Correct me if I'm wrong, but your grandfathers are Septimus Weasley and Ignatius Prewett. Septimus was a prefect my first year — his sixth or seventh year, I can't remember which for certain — but I distinctly recall Ignatius was two years younger than me. Your grandmother Lucy, who was a Black at the time, was the target of some teasing by the other girls in our year for spending so much time with a younger Gryffindor, so I remember it.

See, there I go again! You were saying you tried to stay with Jamie and Nev. Why couldn't you?

 _I'll give you one guess._

Ronald.

 _Yes. The insufferable arse. He just told me to leave. Really mean. And when I said I didn't want to he actually pushed me out._

I'm surprised you didn't just hex him.

 _I might have._

Why didn't you?

 _Jamie just sat there and let him do it. So I decided I would just go. It's not worth hanging around the both of them if Ron is going to be mean to me and Jamie is going to do nothing about it._

That's very wise of you, Ginny. Many girls your age wouldn't be capable of being quite that level-headed about it.

 _That's because they're retarded._

Perhaps. Don't you know anyone else your age? I would figure your mother would have made sure you had some girl friends, at least.

 _Well, I've been introduced to a few over the years, but they're all annoying. The only one I even kind of like is Luna. I'm in a compartment with her right now, actually, but she's being boring at the moment. Just sitting there with her nose in her Quibbler._

Quibbler? The satirical political tabloid? That still exists?

 _I don't know about satire or politics, but yes, it still exists. Luna's dad publishes it himself._

Oh, this Luna is a Lovegood, then? I don't think you ever mentioned that.

 _Yeah, how did you know?_

One Euphemia Lovegood founded the Quibbler in 1832. It's always been run by Lovegoods. That would be Xenophilius Lovegood, her father? Odd bloke. But then, he is a Lovegood.

 _Do you just know everybody?_

My creator got around. He talked to me about the people he met or heard of, as a way to work out what he thought about them. I picked up a lot. It is quite likely I will know something about one relative or another of everyone you're attending Hogwarts with, simply because it is Hogwarts.

But don't mind me. Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?

 _No, nothing really. I'm just bored._

If something's bothering you, go ahead. I don't mind.

 _Why do you think something's bothering me?_

Your handwriting is somewhat more jittery than normal. I suppose that could be from the bouncing of the train, but I don't think so. Also, I'm slowly growing better at reading your moods through that little bit of your magic I can feel, and I'm pretty sure you're nervous. If I'm wrong, or you just want me to piss off, say so and I'll drop it.

 _No, we can talk about it, I guess. Not like I have anything better to do. It is sort of stupid, though._

That's okay. Even the best of us are stupid sometimes.

 _You won't think I'm silly?_

Ginny, try not to take what I'm about to tell you the wrong way. Read the whole thing before you get annoyed with me.

Yes, I do think you're a bit silly sometimes. More than once, things you've said have been so ridiculous I've found myself wishing I was capable of sighing or rolling my eyes. I suspect eleven-year-old girls seem inherently silly to me sometimes, just by nature. That, and I honestly think some of the things emotionally normal people get worked up over are just stupid.

But that is not all you are. I don't know if you're aware of this, but you are extremely bright. Even just your use of English is more consistently advanced than I would normally expect, and your level of comprehension of, well, all sorts of things is simply astounding. I don't often go out of my way to communicate how impressed I've been so far, because I don't want to get too repetitive or come off as overly flattering, but it is clear to me you are exceptionally intelligent for your age. I sometimes have to remind myself you're only eleven. I've met adults who get confused when I'm talking about the fundamentals of abstract magic theory quicker than you do.

Not to mention your skill with magic! Do you have any idea how few of your soon-to-be classmates have ever used a wand at all, much less taught themselves nearly as many charms as you have? It's practically unheard of. I can think of a handful of prodigies off the top of my head who showed greater talent at your age, but only a handful.

So, yes, you are silly sometimes. And it's very possible what you're about to say might seem silly to me. But I sincerely doubt it will in any way diminish my already rather high opinion of you. Eleven-year-old girls are simply allowed to be silly sometimes.

Okay?

 _You really think all that of me?_

I suppose I don't really have any way to convince you if you're not inclined to take me at my word. But yes.

 _I'm sorry, I don't know what to say. Nobody's ever said anything like that to me before._

Adults often miss age-inappropriate intellectual development if they're not specifically looking for it. And how many people even know about your sneaking around to teach yourself magic?

 _Just Bill and Luna._

They've never commented before?

 _Well, I guess. Bill just made sure I wasn't doing anything to hurt myself then changed the subject, but he was really busy. Luna doesn't say anything about it ever. That I'm good with charms is just a thing that is true to her. Like the sky being blue, it's just there, why talk about it?_

When you think about it, that in itself is a high compliment.

...

 _I never thought about it that way. Huh. I guess so._

 _But, okay. I can talk about the silly thing. It's just, you know, the Sorting is going to be happening straight after getting there._

Yes, it will. Takes bloody forever, but yes.

 _I'm just nervous._

About?

 _What if I really am in Slytherin?_

I'm not sure I understand. Is that a bad thing?

 _Yes!_

Why?

 _I but— What?!_

Why is that a bad thing?

 _It is!_

But why?

 _I don't even know, but it is!_

There is a reason for everything, Ginny. If you find the thought of being in Slytherin so very repellent, there must be a **reason** for it. If there weren't, well, where is that feeling coming from? Feelings don't come out of nothing.

 _It's not out of nothing, but, it's just obvious!_

What's so obvious about it?

 _Slytherins are just, you know, I don't know!_

Evil? Is that the word you're avoiding?

 _I guess so. I was about to write it but then_

Then you remembered I was in Slytherin myself.

 _Yes. Oops._

You know, you are really quite adorable sometimes.

 _Shut up, Tom._

I realise I am in a bloody book, which means I have no eyes, so I haven't the foggiest what you actually look like. I guess it's your mind that's adorable, if that makes sense.

 _Shut up._

I don't mean to be patronising, you know. Just a statement of fact.

 _Still. Stop it._

Your wish is my command, fair maiden. I shall cease relating facts if you so desire it. From this moment onward only the foulest of untruths shall I stitch across these pages, lies so putrid the paper in your hands may fester.

 _Stop it! You're making me laugh, but this is supposed to be a serious conversation!_

All right, fine, being serious now. Where were we again? I mean, before the part about you being adorable, and how this is an indisputable law of reality.

 _I really can't tell sometimes if this is supposed to be teasing or flirting when you get like this._

You're eleven, Ginny, and I'm a book. I think it's safe to say I am not a threat to your virtue.

Also, I hadn't realised there was a difference.

 _You're doing this on purpose, aren't you._

Yes. Humour is the best remedy for nervousness, I've found. How am I doing?

 _Not terrible. Just, find something else to make jokes about next time._

The adorable part wasn't a joke, just everything after that.

 _Myrðin, Tom, you know what I meant!_

Yes, of course I do. Moving on, then?

 _Please!_

So, Slytherins are evil, apparently. Have you informed your grandmothers of this knowledge of yours?

 _What? What do you mean?_

Only that both of your grandmothers were in Slytherin.

 _Both? I mean, you mentioned Lucy, but_

Yes, both were. Lucy Black was in my year, even. I didn't know Cedrella Black nearly as well, but she was Head Girl my first year.

 _Wait, they were both Blacks?_

Well, yes. You didn't know that?

 _No I wait eeewwwww my parents are cousins._

Yes. Second or third cousins, probably. That's not strange at all, for purebloods. Lucy's younger brother Orion also married a second cousin, and she was even born a Black.

 _Ew ew eeeewwww stop talking about this, right now._

You know you're probably going to end up marrying a pureblood yourself, and you'll almost certainly be related somehow.

 _No. Nuh-uh. I'm gonna marry a muggleborn, so there._

Not Jamie?

 _Why are you telling nooo_

Third cousins, I believe.

 _Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

How many of those are you going to write?

 _However many it takes to get you to change the subject._

I thought you were raised pureblood. Shouldn't this sort of thing be normal for you?

 _oooooooooooooooooooooo_

I mean, this really shouldn't be news.

 _ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

You realise you're being adorable again, of course.

 _ooooooooo shut up, Tom oooooooooooooo_

Alright, fine. I can stop teasing you. For now.

But, okay, let's talk about Slytherin. The primary virtues that are said to exemplify the house — do you even know anything about this? I suspect you don't.

 _I just know about, you know, the Death Eaters and all._

There were Death Eaters or supporters from all three houses, but more from Slytherin than the other three, true. Though there were fewer former Slytherins among the Death Eaters than people who had gone to other schools, and were therefore in none of the houses, but let's put that aside for now. Yes, a fair number of Slytherins, but that is not to say **all** Slytherins became Death Eaters — some of the more visible figures who fought the Death Eaters were also in Slytherin. Among the Aurors, Rufus Scrimgeour was obviously the most well known, but there were also Geoffrey Savage and Caoilinn NicMhaoláin. Even in the Order of the Phoenix itself, Emmeline Vance and Dorcas Meadowes were both Slytherins. They were considered two of the Order's better fighters, effective enough the Dark Lord tracked Meadowes down personally; supposedly he tried the same with Vance, but she even managed to escape.

And let's not forget the Circle of Agastya, another major player in the war, and this one dominated by Slytherins. Orion Black, your great uncle, reinstituted the organisation specifically to fight the Death Eaters, even crossing wands with the Dark Lord himself on more than one occasion, finally succumbing in their fourth one-on-one duel, I believe. He was a Slytherin. Another member, his cousin Cygnus, was assassinated by his own daughter on the Dark Lord's orders. Another Slytherin. Orion's son Regulus was a Circle spy among the Death Eaters, eventually discovered and executed by the Dark Lord himself, he was a Slytherin. Ciara Selwyn, another Slytherin member — she escaped the Dark Lord's purge of the organisation by the skin of her teeth, but I'm not in a position to know if she's still alive. And there was Elizabeth Potter, of course, she managed to ruin a litany of the Dark Lord's plans before he finally captured and killed her.

So, yes, many Slytherins became Death Eaters, but many also fought against them. Being Sorted into Slytherin isn't a sentence to a lifetime of bigotry and terrorism.

 _I knew about some of those, I guess, but I never really thought about it. But, didn't You Know Who talk Slytherin stuff all the time? And he was a Parselmouth and everything..._

Do you really have to call him "You Know Who" like that? It's so silly.

 _I guess I don't have to. I would feel weird using the V name, don't know what else to say._

"Dark Lord"?

 _I could, but only Dark people call him that._

Really?

 _Yes? I think so._

I didn't know that. Interesting.

 _Yeah. The first few times you called him that I was actually a little worried over it._

To be entirely fair, it wouldn't be incorrect to label me "Dark", if one were so inclined. I don't see why the government should be able to tell me what magic I can and cannot use. The Dark also tend to be more permissive when it comes to personal freedoms for non-human magical races, which just seems reasonable to me. Not to say I agree with the Death Eaters by any means — I honestly can't see how whether someone has magical ancestors or not should possibly matter the slightest bit, and many of their methods would be excessive no matter the justification. Those also have nothing to do with the political philosophy traditionally referred to as "Dark", but I suppose that isn't the point.

 _Aren't all Dark people pureblood supremacists? I thought that was just part of what Dark was._

No, not even a little bit. Death Eater rhetoric, taken as a political philosophy, could be thought of as a mix of traditionally Dark and Light ideas, with an overwhelming nationalist and racist slant. The primary Dark alliance in the Wizengamot opposed the Dark Lord's supporters, in fact, quite strongly.

But we're getting off topic. Yes, the Dark Lord declared himself the Heir of Slytherin. So? He liked to portray himself as such, but there was no proof backing his claim, and neither did he ever **try** to prove it. That reeks of a lie to me. Claiming himself to be the last living descendant of Slytherin **is** a lie — most Noble Houses and many Common will find Slytherins or Gaunts or some other closely related family in their ancestry if they look back far enough. You yourself are a descendant of Salazar Slytherin: both your grandmothers were Blacks, and the entire House has been for centuries.

And yes, he was a Parselmouth. So? There are hundreds of Parselmouths all over the world. Are they all irredeemably evil? Most Parselmouths of any renown are primarily **Healers**! Some of the greatest Healers in history have been Parselmouths, to the point that, in many areas of the world, Parseltongue and Healing are inextricably linked in their culture. I really don't see how the Dark Lord being a Parselmouth has anything to do with Slytherin, or why that should be a bad thing even so.

What is Slytherin **actually** about? Ask one of the prefects, or read one of several books on the subject, and they should talk about fraternity, and cleverness, and loyalty, and ambition, and determination. I suppose it's possible I've drastically misread your personality, but I can't imagine those are traits you would view negatively. I've been operating on the assumption you would be in Slytherin ever since you told me about how you've been sneaking around teaching yourself magic. Some of your comments about wishing everyone wouldn't think of you as a "girl" were significant hints, too.

So, honestly, I can't imagine why you are so determined to reject Slytherin. You're only rejecting a part of yourself, a part I **know** you are not truly ashamed of.

 _Stop that._

Stop what?

 _You're making far too much sense._

I generally do try to make sense, you know. I find it's far preferable to the alternative.

 _Yes, but, you're supposed to be, I don't know._

You do know.

 _You're supposed to be mean! Not, like, I guess, even some of the stuff you've been saying about Slytherins are things people say about_ _Gryffindors_ _! Oh, this one, he was your great-uncle, you know, he bravely fought the Dark Lord over and over, died a hero! That's Gryffindor shite!_

Did I ever say he died a hero? He died a failure.

 _WHAT?!_

He died a failure. He had dedicated decades of his life to defeating unreasoning bigotry, to defeating the Dark Lord specifically. But, in the end, he lost. The Dark Lord killed him, the Death Eaters purged most of his allies and followers, and even his family is on the verge of extinction.

Heroes don't die, Ginny. The concepts are mutually exclusive. Martyrs, martyrs die. Heroes **win**. And you can't win if you're dead.

 _Well, I guess it's kind of obvious when you put it that way._

This sort of thing is usually obvious when you take the time to think about it. The problem is that most people don't.

 _Mum talks about this a lot. You see, she had brothers, and they were in the Order, maybe you heard of them? Gideon and Fabian Prewett?_

Yes, but those two actually **did** die heroes. While they were killed, yes, it took absurd odds to finally take them down, and even then they nearly killed the dozens of Death Eaters fighting them down to a man. Only a couple survived the encounter, I heard. Not only that, but they also succeeded in buying time for the muggleborn families they were protecting to evacuate. So, they did die, but they also won. Which makes them martyrs **and** heroes, I suppose.

 _Oh, well okay. I just mean... I don't know what to think about all this. I mean, I've been told forever Slytherins are bad, all of them are, it's just the way they are. My parents are a bit less... They don't usually_ _say_ _that. Some of my brothers do. I guess my parents only go so far as saying you shouldn't trust a Slytherin._

To be fair, you **shouldn't** trust a Slytherin. But then, you shouldn't trust anyone without good reason.

 _What do you mean?_

Let's put it this way. You trust your brothers, right? Specifically, let's say, you trust Bill?

 _Okay, yeah, Bill I do trust, yes._

You would trust him in nearly any situation to have your back, to make sure you're safe. To always have your interests at heart.

 _Yes? What's the point?_

 **Why**? Why do you trust him that much?

 _...I don't know. I never really thought about it. He's my brother._

Do you trust all of your brothers as much as you trust Bill?

 _Well, no. He's just Bill, I guess? He's always doing things to make sure we're okay. I mean, whenever he's home he's usually enchanting things around the house, or checking the wards. Always asking how I'm doing, and actually listening, and healing me when the twins or Ron do something mean. I just do._

Yes, you do. And you should. You have good reason to trust him. He is your brother, and has shown multiple times he is a person who deeply cares for his family. Not only that, but you can think of myriad times he has gone out of his way to help you or provide for you in one way or another. Trusting him is wise.

Now, think. If you **weren't** Bill's little sister, if you **didn't** have in your past any of these times of him being kind to you, taking care of you, if you were perfect strangers — should you trust him then?

 _I don't know. I want to say yes, because Bill isn't just nice to me. He always tries to do right by everyone if he can. But..._

Yes?

 _Well, I mean, just, it would depend on what I was trusting him to do. Trust him to not hurt me? Yes, Bill wouldn't hurt someone if they don't give him a good reason. Trust him to, I don't know, fix wards for me, or check if some enchanted thing is cursed? If I was paying him, I guess? He is really good at that sort of thing, but I couldn't expect him to do it for me for free if he had no reason to want to, could I? Since I wouldn't be his sister, I would need to give him a reason. If I_ _were_ _paying him, I would trust him then, he's an honourable sort. But, I don't know what else I could. I mean, if I were some stranger, I'm not sure I could expect he would stop the twins or Ron from picking on me, could I? They're his brothers, and if I'm not his sister, he would pick their side, I think. Is that what you meant?_

More or less. Trusting someone is wise if you have good reason to expect their loyalty to you, or if you understand their personality and priorities well enough to anticipate how they will behave. But otherwise? Should you trust every random person on the street to consider you as fully as Bill does? No, that would be foolish. Trusting without reason is foolish.

Your parents have likely warned you and your brothers to not trust Slytherins because they might not be certain you realise this. Surrounded by close family and friends your whole lives, mostly Gryffindors at that, you have been taught to trust, and to trust unthinkingly. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs often speak of trust as though it were a virtue, as though people have some inalienable right to be trusted, no matter the circumstance. This is, obviously, ridiculous. Someone a bit less presumptuous in their evaluation of other people might notice your tendency to trust people too much without justification, and use this to their advantage.

Your parents are wise to warn you to be careful, but unwise to have taught you to trust so easily in the first place. If they hadn't done the latter, the former wouldn't have been necessary.

 _How could they use that to their advantage though?_

Who knows? I can't say without some knowledge about the specific person and what their priorities might be. It could be harmless, something you don't mind letting them have. Perhaps something you would do for them if they'd just asked. But, then, it might not be. You won't know until it happens.

But we got off-topic at some point. Why are you so opposed to the idea of being put in Slytherin? Honestly, now. The real reason.

 _The real reason? And you don't think I've been giving you the real reason?_

I think you've been telling me what you think you **should** say. You may believe these things to some extent, but they're not the real reason.

 _So why did you bother going on these long rants correcting me then?_

I said I would help you so far as I am able, Ginny. Allowing you to continue being wrong without any comment is not helping you under any definition I subscribe to.

 _Oh, well, thanks for informing me everyone ever has been lying to me. That's great._

I hope you realise I haven't said these things with the intention of distressing you. I realise they might, and that is unfortunate, but it isn't the purpose. The truth can often be painful, but it only stings once; a falsehood believed to be true may injure again and again and again.

Though, you are assuming I am telling the truth. How do you know you can trust me?

 _You have no reason to lie? And, anyway, if I found out you lied to me somehow, I might get mad and, like, stick you under a tree somewhere where nobody will find you. Then nobody will ever talk to you and you'll be alone forever._

Very good, Ginny. Also, I legitimately enjoy helping people learn things, but you can't know for certain whether I'm telling the truth about that.

 _I can though. You wouldn't tell me so much about so many different things with very little good reason and without being asked if you didn't want to. That you want me to learn things just because you like teaching is the only explanation that makes sense._

Ha! Yes, that's true, good catch. We'll make a proper Slytherin of you yet.

 _What if I don't want to be a proper Slytherin?_

Don't you, though? Why wouldn't you? We are rather entertaining people, once you get to know us. I did have friends in other houses, of course, but I always considered Slytherins the most complicated and the most interesting.

 _Maybe there are things more important than being entertained._

At Hogwarts? I would argue not really. And even in the outside world, so long as your needs are met, wouldn't you rather have an interesting life than a boring one, all else being equal?

 _All else_ _isn't_ _equal though._

It's not the rest of your life, Ginny. It's only seven years. That might seem like a lot to you right now, but you're young. A few decades from now, nobody will care which house you were in. The topic might come up out of curiosity, but nothing more.

 _Then why do you think it's so important I go into Slytherin?_

To be fair, you opened this conversation, not me. This conversation is more about your aversion for the house than my affection toward it. So, Ginny, why do you think it's so important you **don't** go to Slytherin?

 _I told you already!_

You gave me reasons. Terrible reasons — and I think you realise that by now. You didn't give me **the** reason. What is **the** reason, Ginny? What are you truly afraid of?

 _My family will hate it okay! My parents were both Gryffindors, my brothers are all Gryffindors, and they all hate Slytherins, and they'll hate it! It'll be awkward and terrible and they'll hate it! That's why, you nosey little prick!_

 _There, are you happy?_

Why should I be happy, Ginny? Is there some reason your pain should make me happy? I'm not quite that much of a sadist.

Besides, I believe we've already established I'm not entirely sure what happiness is supposed to feel like, anyway.

 _But well bluh!_

Bluh?

 _Bluh! Bluuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh_

That is a lot of pointless letters.

 _They're not pointless. I am expressing my dissatisfaction with this conversation._

I did assume. You get silly when you're uncomfortable.

 _I think that's most people, really._

Many, yes. About your family, though

 _No!_

What?

 _No, we don't have to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it, I just bleh! Bleh bluh bleh bleh bluuuuhhh! ! ! !_

You're writing out sounds at me again, Ginny. And, is that four exclamation points?

 _! ! ! ! ! ! !_

Ah, excuse me, it appears they brought friends.

 _Calling me silly, you're silly sometimes yourself._

Yes, but I do it on purpose, a conscious decision I make as part of my communication strategy. And sometimes just because it's fun. You do it when you get too flustered to think straight. There's a difference.

I'm going to ask you a philosophical question, Ginny.

 _This is going to come back around to the bit about my family, isn't it._

Yes.

 _You're getting predictable, Tom._

Maybe you're just getting smarter.

 _And now you're trying to flatter me into listening. See? Predictable._

Are you sure you're only eleven?

 _I wouldn't say I'm_ _only_ _anything._

There you go again. Astounding.

 _Yes, yes, aren't I so brilliant, my talking diary thinks so._

 _Whatever, Tom, just spit out whatever you're thinking._

I'll ignore the sarcasm for the moment and just do that.

I was wondering, Ginny, what you believe the limits are so far as filial piety is concerned.

 _?_

Loyalty or duty of a son or daughter to their parents. Many mages use the phrase far more generally to apply to the House at large.

 _Right. Okay. And I guess I don't know, really._

We'll just go down a list of things, shall we?

Let's say your parents, or one of your brothers, committed a heinous crime. Tortured and murdered complete innocents, people who had done nothing to them. Would you still stand by them? Defend them from all opposition?

 _No, of course not, if they did something that bad._

How about something less severe? Say, they got pissed out of their mind, and assaulted someone. Didn't kill them, but injured them very badly. Do you still defend them then?

 _I suppose it would depend._

On what?

 _Well, what I was defending them from I guess? Like if someone was trying to hurt them out of revenge over it, I'd try to do something. Depending on which brother it is, I might still think they're a, I don't know, basically good person? People do make mistakes. That is a big mistake but still. They'd probably have to go to Azkaban over it, which would suck, but I wouldn't, say, try to hide them from the Ministry or something. Then I could get in trouble for their stupid mistake, and I'm not gonna do that._

All right, then. How about something **far** less severe? You're at Hogwarts, and you stumble on, let's say it's Ron. Ron is bullying some first year. Some random Hufflepuff, someone whose name you don't even know. Jinxing him, stealing his stuff, whatever. Then, a kid a couple years older comes over, a sibling or a cousin, and is about to start hexing Ron over it. What do you do?

 _It depends on what Ron was doing to the kid. If it was bad enough, I'd probably just sit back and watch, then drag him to the hospital wing after._

Okay. See, you do believe you should be loyal to your family, but there are things you will not back them on. And, as you've just said, that line isn't even that far away from day to day normalcy. I've known people who would have been entirely on their family member's side in the first situation, even for people in their House they don't particularly like. Blacks, mostly. Blacks are like that.

I'm going to turn this concept around a bit, and at the same time bring it back to the bit with your family. I'm warning you this time, just because.

 _Great, Tom. Thanks._

No problem, Ginny. And yes, I realise that was sarcasm.

Let's say, in another universe, you were older than Ron, and he was the youngest. Let's say, you were Sorted into Gryffindor yourself, and he's coming in the next year. Let's say he gets Sorted into Slytherin. Would you just up and abandon him?

 _Well, no._

Would you really treat him any differently at all?

 _I don't think so? I mean, if he was turning into a mean little arsehole, I might. I might hate his friends, if they're racist Dark arseholes. But if he didn't give me a good reason to, no, I don't think I would treat him any differently._

Just being Sorted into Slytherin isn't reason enough?

 _I guess I would wonder why he was put there. But he was my brother before he was Sorted, right? It doesn't magically make him a different person. He'd still be my brother._

It's almost amusing how you just contradicted your own thinking and don't seem to realise it.

It would make no difference to **you** if one of your immediate family were Sorted into Slytherin. So, why should it make any difference to **them**?

 _You're doing the thing again, Tom._

The thing?

 _Where you take something really complicated and then make it seem so obvious I'm a bit embarrassed I didn't figure it out myself._

I suppose that is my thing.

I didn't realise I had a thing. But, now that you've pointed it out, I feel a little embarrassed I didn't figure that out myself.

 _You're teasing me. You don't feel things. You're a book._

Yes. Yes, I am teasing you. That is also my thing.

 _I knew you were going to say that before you did._

That is starting to become your thing.

 _I guess. Anyway, you're saying, they shouldn't have any problem with it because they also...the Latiny thing._

Filial piety.

 _Yes. That. They have that, so it should be fine._

That is what I am saying, yes. Partially.

It is possible, you must realise, that they **will** shun you for being Sorted into Slytherin. But remember, you yourself are only loyal to your family to a point. One would have to wonder, if your family is so eager to hate you simply for being who you are, over something so innocuous as what house you are put into at Hogwarts, do they truly deserve your loyalty?

 _That's really scary, Tom._

I'm not saying it's likely. Your brothers might be pricks about it for the first few months, but they'll get over it eventually. Your parents shouldn't have any issue at all. I don't expect it to be a real problem. Of course, if your parents do make a fuss, you can always write your grandmothers. I am certain they would take your side in a heartbeat.

It would not be the end of the world, Ginny, and you would not be alone. It's really not something to worry about that much. You should simply go where you belong. Everything else will settle in time.

 _And you really think where I belong is in Slytherin?_

Do I know so for a fact? No. But I do expect you to be Sorted there, and I expect you to do quite well for yourself. You have it in you.

And, well, I suppose I am here to help should you need it.

 _I guess._

 _Let's talk about something else._

If you like. Or you could talk to your friend over there, if you would prefer. You don't have to keep me company all the time, you know. You should have other friends.

 _I know. She's still reading her thing though._

Lovegoods.

 _Lovegoods._

 _Thanks, Tom. For...you know what for._

It was no problem at all, Ginny.

* * *

 _So, that's a thing._

 _fyi, this one will **not** just be Ginny and diary!Tom talking. In fact, this is probably the only chapter that that will happen in. A couple scenes here and there, yes, but not whole chapters. This fic mostly deals with a Slytherin!Hermione and a re-embodied diary!Tom teaming up to...take over magical Britain._

 _Yes. You read that right. That's **really** where I'm going with this. Tom version 2.0 does use very different methods than the original — not to mention, Voldemort **is** still around to complicate things — and he is actually being honest about, well, most of the things he told Ginny in this chapter, really. Some of it is exaggerated, or framed in a flattering way, but mostly. Team Tom–Hermione isn't, like, fluffy kitties and rainbows super happy and moral and innocent and shit, but they're not exactly Death Eaters either._

 _I think it's fun, at least._

 _By the way, poll now up on profile. Go nuts._

 _~Wings_


	8. By Gods Forsaken

_Yeah. Oops._

 _I didn't intend to go this long without updating again, but...shit happens. I think I got over the hump by abandoning my planned chapter and skipping to something else, again, but it might be a bit before I have it done. Probably just a few days, we'll see._

 _In the meantime, here's a bunch of other shit I've been working on lately. Some of these will be options for the next fic. There'll probably be a poll up for that in the near future._

 _Anywhere, here we go._

* * *

 ** _By Gods Forsaken_**

* * *

 _9:30 Pluitanis 17_

 _Kibannan Circle of Magi, Ostwick, Confederation of Free Cities_

* * *

Evie might only be nine, but she wasn't stupid. They were afraid of her. She could tell.

Which she thought was rather silly, honestly. She was _nine_. She was all little, in her stupid pretty dress her parents had gotten her for the occasion. Which was _extra_ stupid. It was a silly thing, all white and gold and frilly. She guessed her parents had thought if she was going to die she should at least be all pretty for the occasion. She had absolutely nothing on her she could hurt anybody with.

And she was the only person in the room that was true for. There was First Enchanter Jeria standing right there, looking all slightly nervous, but Evie knew the First Enchanter could set people on fire with her thoughts if she wanted to. And five Templars all standing about with their shiny armor and big swords. The only one she recognized was Knight-Captain Severin, but he never wore his helmet, and most Templars did, so she wasn't sure if she knew the others. But they were all very dangerous people, she knew that. Not that that particularly scared her. She'd been around Templars a lot, so they weren't anything new. The mages were slightly new, she guessed, but they'd all been fine so far, and the First Enchanter was really nice. So, she wasn't scared.

But they were afraid of her. She could tell. Which was just silly.

"Have a seat, Evie." The First Enchanter was trying to sound normal, but there was a slight wiggle, her fingers shaking. She waved Evie to a chair, faded cloth and scratched wood. Old, Evie thought, not beaten up on purpose. Once she had dropped into the chair, Jeria kneeled in front of her with a little groan. The First Enchanter was an old person, after all. Not really old. Somewhere between Evie's parents and grandparents in age, she thought, her oddly brown face marked with a few lines here and there, a touch of grey starting at her forehead. She leaned toward Evie, spoke in an urgent whisper. "Remember, child. You step into dreams. The only thing that is real there is you. Your thoughts, your feelings. Remember that, don't let anything trick you, and you will be safe."

Evie tried not to frown at Jeria. That was a silly thing to say. So far as she understood this Harrowing thing, it was just going into the Fade. Like going to sleep. Though...she had a feeling other people didn't experience the Fade the same way she did. She was pretty sure even mages weren't...she didn't know, completely aware of themselves? Something. She didn't expect this Harrowing thing to be that different from what she did every time she went to bed. But there would be no point to arguing about that, would probably just make them even more scared. People were weird about Fade stuff. So she just nodded.

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him." Evie blinked, turned to the Knight-Captain. He was talking in a weird, dramatic voice, being even more silly than before. That was from the Chant, she knew, but she couldn't remember where. "Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children." The Knight-Captain was walking closer to her now, coming into the light thrown from the sunroof, so Evie could see he was carrying a stone chalice. There was something inside, something giving off a sharp blue glow. Even from here, it made her tingle, sparks dancing on her skin. "They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.

"But the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction. The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next." She recognised this from the Chant too, one of her aunts said it sort of a lot. And now the Knight-Captain was kneeling in front of her too, with a lot of jingling of mail and clanking of metal. From this angle she could see inside the chalice, see the stuff that looked sort of halfway between water and fog, there and not-there, all glowing blue, her skin now on fire with tingles, nose filled with metal and blood. She squirmed in her seat a little. "For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire, and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

"Drink, child," the Knight-Captain said, holding the chalice up toward her. "Cast yourself into the abyss, the well of all souls. Among those emerald waters, face the Maker's first children, and find your way back to us."

Despite the serious mood they were all going for, Evie couldn't help giving the chalice a frowning pout. They wanted her to _drink_ that? Ugh. It hurt just _looking_ at it. The tingling on her skin was getting even worse as it got closer, just plain painful now, an ache growing gradually in her head, like when her uncle Renault tried to sing. But, fine, she guessed she could do that. She grabbed at the chalice, barely finding room to hold it around the Knight-Captain's big metal gloves. Wincing as the fiery tingling got worse, she lifted the chalice toward her head.

She never actually drank any. She _tried_ to, but before she could get it into her mouth it kind of sprang over her, like steam lifting from the pots in the kitchens, and started sinking inward, burning like fire and crackling like lightning. Evie only had long enough to let out a short scream as the blue whatever-it-was sunk into her eyes, her nose, her ears, forcing its way into her head, pouring down her throat and—

Evie sprung to her feet, hands going to her face, fingers running over her chin, her cheeks, her eyelids, even checking the inside of her ears and mouth. Nothing. It was gone. Well, _she_ was gone, technically. There was this sort of...floaty feeling? Like she wasn't as solid as she should be, like she had partially transformed into water, might just flow away at the slightest thought.

Because she _could_ flow away, slide what felt like hundreds of feet, miles in an instant. She'd learned how to do that here. She thought it might be possible to do it in the real world too, but she only knew how to do it here. She could do nearly anything she wanted here. The Fade was like that.

She glanced around, and found herself frowning. This didn't look like a very nice place. The air was made of greenish fog, as it always seemed to be, but was far darker, looking gloomy and murky. Not the pretty, bright glow it usually was, like sunlight passing through leaves, but instead looking gross and slimy. She didn't like it. The ground under her feet was neither stone nor metal, yet sort of both, hard and craggy and matte black. It wasn't just under her feet, but poking up around her in a few places, bits of it floating in the air at random here and there, as always happened here. But it was such a bad color, heavy and hard and dark, she didn't like it. The only thing the same as usual was the Black City directly over her head, upside-down, the thin, tall spires of glimmering metal and glass visible through the green murk very familiar. But of course it was, it was always in the same place, upside-down above her, no matter where she was, no matter how far she traveled in her sleep.

She'd known where she ended up in the Fade depended somewhat on where she'd fallen asleep. It didn't seem very consistent, like a mile in the real world was twenty miles here, but on other days only a few inches. And what kind of day it'd been seemed to matter too, how she'd been feeling, how her family had been feeling. She'd only slept for a couple days in the Circle so far, but she'd never seen anything like this yet.

She only had to look around for a few seconds before she decided she didn't want to be here. She _really_ didn't like it. So, she was just going to wake up now. She closed her eyes and concentrated, reaching deep inside herself, groping for her body. It was easy enough to find it. She'd forced herself back to the real world many times, when she found something scary or she'd simply been here long enough, felt her body waking up without her. But...she couldn't get in. It was the weirdest thing. It was like there was a wall between them, glowing a hard blue, that wouldn't let her pass.

She frowned to herself. That wasn't good. That was probably that blue stuff, keeping her out. Watching it, she thought it might be shrinking, weakening, but slowly. She'd have to wait, then. And hope nothing bad found her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, kicked at the hard black ground at her feet. She winced at the pain racing up her leg, then imagined her climbing boots into being around her feet, shaking her head to herself. Idiot, should have thought of that first. Another kick at the ground, this time she hardly even felt it. Better. And she grumbled to herself, muttering about the _stupid_ Templars and the _stupid_ Circle and her _stupid_ parents, making her do this _stupid_ thing...

"Don't let yourself get too carried away now, child." Evie jumped at the voice, spun around on her heel. Sitting on a nearby outcrop of blackness was a boy, right around her age, dressed in simple robes of white and green. Well, it looked like a boy, anyway. Since this was the Fade, though, it was probably a spirit, and she didn't think spirits could even _be_ boys. "The power you have bound around you from the rarefied lyrium makes you far too attractive. Unkind things are about. It would do you best to avoid notice as long as possible."

That was as long as it took for Evie to recognize this spirit. Not because of how it looked — it never looked the same twice — or even the sound of its voice — that always changed too. But more _how_ it was talking, the way it was looking at her. How it felt. She couldn't even say exactly how. She just knew. "Oh. Hello, Mystrel," she said, giving the spirit a smile.

It frowned back at her, but she could tell it was fake. This spirit really liked her, for some reason. A lot of spirits liked her, she wasn't sure why, and she sometimes ended up crowded by them until she had to force herself awake, but this was the one she saw most consistently. Mystrel, as she'd decided to call it, had explained it was a spirit of knowledge, of learning, and found no greater joy than to learn as much as it could, then share what it knew with anyone it could find. For some reason, it'd decided to teach Evie, tracking her down and lecturing at her almost every night.

She wasn't complaining, not at all. Mystrel always had interesting things to talk about, far better than any teacher she'd had in the real world.

But anyway, Mystrel was saying, "You never did tell me why you decided to call me that."

"What fun would it be if I told you?"

Mystrel gave a long-suffering sigh at that, but Evie could tell it was smiling on the inside. At least, as much as it _could_ smile on the inside, spirits didn't really feel things like normal people. "You can conjure a more comfortable seat for yourself, just be careful not to change too much. You don't want to draw attention to yourself. Do _not_ reach for any dreams." It meant memories, hiding preserved just under the surface of the Fade, it always called them that for some reason. "Also, try not to be afraid."

Evie gave it a look at that. She wasn't afraid, really. She had been at first, but that had just been that blue stuff — rarefied lyrium, apparently, not that she knew what that was — it had been all getting all over her, that was scary. She was fine now. It was just the Fade. It might be spooky and bad-looking right now, but it wasn't that bad. Maybe it was just general advice. Mystrel didn't think she was afraid, necessarily, just telling her it would be bad to be afraid, so to try to avoid it. She could do that. "Why would it be bad to be afraid?" She didn't make a seat for herself, she didn't need to. She wasn't really in her body right now, so it was impossible to get tired.

"This is a place of fear," Mystrel said, its voice soft and low. "A mage's fear of the Harrowing. A Templar's fear of the mage. Fear from both of them of demons, the Fade, the unknown. A mage's fear of herself. All that fear, penetrating through the Veil, weakened by repeated use of lyrium, until it is as a beacon, drawing spirits like moths to flame. Surrounding them with fear until it is all they know, the only way they have to interact with your world." Mystrel gave her a sad sort of smile, shaking its head a little. "They don't understand, you see. They see one thing about your people and, since we are in many ways simpler than you, they think the one thing is all. They think the only thing there is is fear. That the best service they could do you would be to fill you with terror until your mind breaks from it. They don't understand. So it is best they not realize you're here until after you've gone."

A shiver tried to come over her, but Evie just ignored it. Which was really easy. This wasn't her real body, it only did what she told it to, so if she wanted to _not_ shiver with horror, to just let the black, sticky feeling wash over her and fall away, like waves crashing against the hard shore to slide away again, then she could. It was a Fade thing, it was best to not think too closely about it. "Why are they making me do this, anyway? I really don't like that lyrium stuff. Feels kind of..." She trailed off, frowned for a moment, then shrugged. She wasn't really sure how to describe what it felt like, the squishy wall of blue light cutting her off from her body. And she _really_ didn't know how to describe it in a way that would make sense to Mystrel, who'd never even had a body. Oh well.

"I think you know that."

"Well, they were obviously scared of me, but I don't know why."

Mystrel just smiled at her again, a sort of look Evie knew it wore when it was...teasing her, sort of, but she wasn't sure the word was right. "I think you know that, too. After all, you've certainly figured out by now that other human children don't make friends with spirits."

Somehow, Evie stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Maybe "teasing" wasn't such a bad word.

"It is truly quite simple, child. You are a Dreamer. They are frightened."

Evie tried to stop it, but she still ended up pouting. That wasn't helpful. "Okay. And what's a Dreamer, then?"

The spirit stared at her for a moment, so still a real person wouldn't have been able to do it. Must have forgot it'd never actually told Evie this. "A mage is to a Dreamer like a hill is to the greatest of mountains. Like a pond is to the raging seas, like a soft breeze is to the sky eternal and all the storms it brings. Like an ant to a dragon. Mages are so far beyond normal men, so much greater in the power they wield, normal men fear them. Dreamers are so far beyond mages, the mages fear them in turn."

Yeah, that wasn't making Evie pout less. Not even a little bit. "Okay, but why? What makes me a dragon? I don't get it."

Mystrel just kept smiling. "All mages can consciously enter the Fade through the use of certain substances, or participation in certain rituals, but even then they are as children. Stumbling, weak, vulnerable. All mages, in their waking hours, can pull the essence of dreams through them into the physical world, and work magic on their surroundings by their will.

"But you walk in dreams. Every night as you sleep, you are here, and you are more comfortable here than most any of your kind would be. You bend our world to your will with nary a thought, shape yourself as you see fit, speak and play with spirits with all the ease you would any human. You are at home here, with dreams and magic, in a way no normal mages are. And when you are awake, your dreams come with you. When you learn to affect your surroundings in the physical world as you do here, you will do so with graceful ease and overwhelming power few will ever be able to match. You are more powerful than they could ever be, both in our world and your own.

"So they fear you, child. And, no matter your youth, they are right to fear you. You are young now, but the smallest of hatchlings may become the fiercest of dragons, given time."

For a long moment, Evie could only stare back at Mystrel. Oh. Well. She hadn't realized she was that special.

She meant, she'd always known she was different. She'd learned very young that other children didn't play with spirits in their sleep. Other children didn't have spirits of knowledge teaching them things their tutors could hardly imagine, other children didn't go exploring through memories long forgotten by men. She'd quickly learned to not talk about spirits and magic and the Fade, because other people were afraid of them. The Chantry said very silly things about them, things Evie knew by now were mostly wrong.

Demons were bad, of course. Some mages did bad things. But saying all spirits and mages were evil was like saying all elves were evil because _some_ of them had done bad things. But people didn't say that, did they? Elves counted as people. Why didn't spirits or mages?

Evie had been very young when she'd come to the very peculiar realization that her parents were wrong. The Chantry sisters was wrong, the Chant itself was wrong, even the Templars and mages were wrong! They were _wrong_ , about spirits and magic, very simple things about how they worked, why they were the way they were. And that made her think. If they could be wrong about simple things, why should she assume they were right about anything else? If they were so wrong about something small, how wrong could they be about something big?

Like the Maker, for example, and Andraste. It was certain Andraste was real, she was a real woman who really lived, she was in books and on monuments, Evie had even seen memories in the Fade. Historians knew for a fact that there had been a slave revolt, over a thousand years ago, and the wife of an Alamarri chieftain had had some prominent role. But the details? What she'd believed, what she'd said to her followers, any specific facts about her life? All of that came from the Chantry. And the oldest verses hadn't even been written until over a hundred years after her death. And they were wrong about so much.

Evie wasn't certain she believed anything the Chantry said anymore. It was rather hard to, when they said her best friends weren't people, that Evie herself was a monster in the making, could turn on her family at any moment.

Evie wasn't even certain the Maker was real anymore.

" _That is heresy you are thinking, child."_

Evie jumped, whirled on her heel, stared out into the greenish murk of this icky part of the Fade. But there was nothing. Nothing new, anyway, nothing worth noting.

" _They will find out what you are thinking. They will know."_

"Evie?" Mystrel was looking at her, almost frowning, as close as the spirit could truly get to concerned. "Is something wrong, child?"

"You can't hear that?" It wasn't until Evie heard her own voice that she realized she was afraid. It was higher than it should be, slightly shaky, which was a bit odd, because she didn't really feel like—

" _You know what these people do to people like you. You are an apostate in heart if not in action. And you know the Templars hold no mercy for apostates."_

Evie whirled on her heel again, looking for the source of the voice, but there was still nothing. And she noticed in the whirling that it wasn't just her voice that was shaky. She was almost shivering, her fingers twitching and her breath hitching and stuttering. But that was wrong. She didn't really feel that bad at all. A little uncomfortable, yes, a little nervous, but not scared enough to be _shaking_ with it. That was just silly...

It only took her a second, thinking about what was supposed to be going on here, that she realized why.

"Is this supposed to be difficult?"

She turned over her shoulder to Mystrel, finding it just in time to catch it blinking with apparent confusion. "You are resisting something's influence."

Evie shrugged. "Well, yes, I suppose I am. It's just...easier than I thought it would be. I barely even noticed it was there. Just a whispery voice, and my fake body thing is acting all like I'm scared, but I'm not."

And Mystrel frowned, not with any real frustration, or confusion, but more an academic sense of curiosity, of picking through its not-brain to try to make sense of this interesting new fact. "Curious. Perhaps you were fortunate enough to have been assaulted by a weak one. Or perhaps a stupid one. You are a Dreamer — history has shown that the best way to overwhelm a Dreamer is to manipulate them into cooperating, and then stabbing them in the back once they have turned it. So to speak. Your kind are too strong-willed to overpower directly, especially with lyrium running through your veins. A direct assault, as this seems to be, would be most ill-advised."

"Hmm." Well, that was just lucky for her, she guessed.

The demon seemed to realize it wasn't working too.

It came as a wave of blackness, pouring over the icky, scraggly ground like a river of oil, but not splashing as it should, sticking to itself all gross. And it washed over her feet, up her legs, nearly to her waist, all thick and sticky and stringy, and it smelled rather bad, like fruit that had been left in the sun too long. It pooled around her, rising up to curl above her head, the parts touching her turning sharp and scratchy, thousands of little fluttering scratches, like too many insects crawling against her skin, rising up into a vague pantomime of a face, glaring down at her with eyes green and black and red, angry and deadly and terrible.

And she felt its magic, pushing down on her, trying to get inside of her, thick and heavy and sharp. But she just ignored it. This wasn't real, this wasn't really happening, and it had no power to hurt her. Not if she didn't let it. So she didn't let it.

" _They will turn on you one day. You are but a child, and already they fear you. The day will come, the day will—"_

"That's nice." Evie glanced down at where the demon was clawing at her legs, all itchy and squirmy, it was really quite unpleasant. "Could you stop that? It's a little weird."

The demon let out a hiss, high and low all at once, stabbing into her head that wasn't really her head, making her fake bones shiver. " _I can save you, child. When the day comes, I can be there, I can—"_

"That's just silly." The demon hissed again, but Evie ignored it, frowning up at the phantom face of black and light glaring down at her. "If you were with me like that, that would be possessing me. That's what abominations are." And since she was apparently a really scary mage, she'd be an even scarier abomination. Sounded bad. "And, really, you think they'd be less scared of me if I were an abomination?"

" _I can help you fight ba—"_

"But they'd have no reason to fight me if I stayed me. All unpossessed."

" _They will, they will one day, they WILL—"_

"Mm-hmm." Really, she wasn't certain the demon was wrong. Mages could be scary to begin with, and she was apparently very scary. And Templars were supposed to protect people from scary mages. It was their job. And, sometimes, people can go too far trying to protect people.

Thinking it, she was seeing her mother, bringing her to the Circle, just a few days ago, crying and stroking her hair, telling her she'd be safer here. It might not be very nice, home was much nicer, she might be lonely, and it would be okay, they would visit, they would visit whenever they could, but it wasn't safe for a mage out there, people might be scared and hurt her, she could learn to control her powers here, she'd be safer...

But it wasn't like Evie had ever not been in control of her powers. She'd heard those stories about other mages, not being able to stop from doing things, and she didn't understand. She'd hardly done any magic ever, but she'd also hardly ever tried. She didn't think she'd ever done anything without trying. Because magic was all about trying. It was wanting the world to be some other way, then forcing power in it to _make_ it that way. She couldn't imagine doing anything on accident. How did that even work?

And as she was showing at this very moment, she clearly didn't have to worry about demons. This was supposed to be hard, apparently. She could feel its power pushing at her, and she guessed this was kinda scary, but it was too easy to ignore. She couldn't imagine ever being possessed. She couldn't imagine how other people could. This was too easy.

She didn't understand why her parents had sent her here. This was stupid.

It was at that very moment, the demon around her screaming a hideous scream as it realized whatever it was trying wasn't working, swirling and shuddering above her in frustration, that she felt it vanish. That blue lightning, the squishy wall separating her from the real world, it was gone. It was like a weight lifting off, something tight around her neck suddenly gone. She glanced around at the rushing black and green and blue walls around her, but she couldn't see Mystrel. So she just said, raising her voice a bit, "Okay, that lyrium stuff is gone now, and it's not very nice here, so I'm gonna go back."

She didn't wait for a response. She wasn't certain Mystrel was even there anymore — a couple times in the past, it'd disappeared when things got too un-knowledge-y, Evie thought things too different from what it was made it uncomfortable somehow. Still ignoring the demon about her being pointlessly annoying, Evie reached deep within herself, groping for her real body back in the real world. And, digging mental fingers in, she _pulled_ —

And she abruptly wished she'd stayed in the Fade. Her head _hurt_ , stinging and pounding, she couldn't help the tears leaking from her eyes. Jeria was holding her, stroking her hair, shushing into her ear, but that didn't make it not hurt.

She wouldn't remember what had happened afterward very well, it was too blurry and painful. But she was certain she'd met Knight-Captain Severin's eyes at some point.

Deep inside, hidden, she swore she saw fear and despair smoldering like fire, green and black and blue.

* * *

 _9:30 Pluitanis 17_

 _Lothering, South Reach, Chasingard, Kingdom of Ferelden_

* * *

She wasn't sure what had possessed her to do it. It was a less than wise thing to be doing — he would surely have Templars about him somewhere, it wouldn't do to be detected. Perhaps it was simple curiosity.

Marian's father had spoken of King Maric Theirin, called the Savior. A man of unimpeachable principle, fierce honor. A good and just man, who was kind when he could be, an unstoppable warrior when needs must. They had never met, of course — Malcolm Hawke had been young when he'd left Ferelden's shores for the Circle at Kirkwall, and, once he'd returned, had had little opportunity to meet a King. But despite his youth, he'd taken a love for his homeland with him to the Free Marches, had followed the news of the war with Orlais ravenously, and had continued to be one of the King's most outspoken supporters in Lothering.

Father had taken ill shortly after King Maric's demise, hadn't lasted the year. She'd had occasion to wonder, half-seriously, if he hadn't been too heartbroken by the death of his childhood hero to endure. Her father had always seemed a painfully idealistic sort, it wasn't out of the question.

So, here she was. Standing in an alley, as deep as she could in the shadows while still being able to see out. Eyes fixed on an open tent at the edge of town. Inside of which stood a table, around which sat the Arl's son Gareth, the most influential of Lothering's elders, Mother Vichiénne, Knight-Captain Bryant. On the other side of the table, flanked by his closest lieutenants, His Majesty Cailan of the House Theirin, King of the Alamarri, High Lord of Ferelden.

It was hard to tell from here — Marian was hardly part of the conversation, couldn't hear what was being discussed. But she found herself faintly disappointed. He just seemed too...

She wasn't certain what word she was looking for. Clean?

In any case, he looked more a boy dressed up in his father's armor — formal armor, finely wrought and polished to a shine, not intended for battle at all. The way he smiled and bounced and paced, and laughed, he just seemed...

She didn't know. It was hard to believe that boisterous little man was her king, that was all.

Perhaps she was distracted, watching the conversation from a distance, less attention paid to her surroundings than truly should be, with so many more Templars in town than usual. Whatever the reason, she jumped when a voice spoke from just behind her, her heart leaping into her throat. "Well, aren't you a sneaky little thing."

Marian forced some measure of composure into herself. Instead of whirling about to face whoever it was, she glanced over her shoulder, her face cool and uninterested. She almost lost any sense of ease when she saw the man.

She couldn't explain how she knew, exactly, she never could. It wasn't like she could see it. Not exactly. But she knew, immediately, viscerally, that this man was a Templar.

Not that he was dressed like one. He was wearing armor, and not inexpensive armor at that, but the color and design were all wrong. Not the burnished silver or the fiery sword of the Templars, the familiar signs were nowhere to be seen. Instead his steel retained its natural grayish color, a griffin carved into his chest plate, not ornamented in any way, but done with such detail the craftsman would have to have been both incredibly skilled and passionately dedicated.

This man was a Grey Warden. There were few enough in Ferelden, every single one of their paltry numbers moving south to meet the intensifying rumors of surfacing darkspawn. He must be a former Templar, then — the Grey Wardens recruited from all walks of life, their people severing all former loyalties to serve all of Thedas. It would still do to be cautious. Marian couldn't know how this particular former Templar felt of mages these days, couldn't know how he would react to finding an apostate skulking about.

Better than an average Templar, certainly, but that wasn't saying much.

Assuming he could feel her just as she could feel him, which she thought was almost a given. Best to play it safe in any case. "Forgive me, Ser, ah..."

The man's face split into a crooked smile, eyes dancing with some unspoken joke. "Alistair."

"Ser Alistair," she said, nodding. "I'm sorry, but it's not very polite to sneak up on a lady like that, you know."

The smile split wider, wide enough she could make out his teeth — too white, noble-born? — his eyes practically sparkling by this point. "Well, it just seems fair game, doesn't it? Sneaking up on somebody being sneaky." Before Marian could say anything to that, he rambled on. "And forgive me, but I didn't realize they'd made a habit of ennobling apostates in the South. My bad."

Marian didn't think. She reached inside herself, grasping for that secret place hidden deep within, that wellspring of power, whispering forever at the edges of her thoughts. She pulled a handful of magic into her grasp, not to strike but to hide, remove herself from the Templar's perception. It might not even work on a Templar, but she had to try, she had to get home, she had to warn—

"Hey now, hey." The Templar had raised both hands up to a level with his head, empty gloves facing outward. "No reason to start throwing spells about. I didn't come here to fight."

"And I'm supposed to believe you're going to just walk away from a free apostate?"

One of the Templar's eyebrows started slipping up his forehead. One of his hands moved, a single gloved finger tapping at his breastplate with the slightest of metallic tinks, right at the edge of the griffin carved into the surface.

Despite herself, Marian's concentration lapsed, and the uncast spell broke apart. She got the message clearly enough — this man was a _former_ Templar, and dealing with apostates wasn't the responsibility of the Grey Wardens. In fact, she'd heard they'd sooner recruit an apostate than hand them over to the Chantry, innocent or not. That didn't necessarily mean she could trust this particular ex-Templar sight unseen, but it was... _possible_ she'd overreacted. Maybe. "If you don't care, why'd you track me down in the first place?" That had to be how he'd found her, followed the faint trace of her innate magic to the source. It couldn't be a coincidence that the person who'd spotted her just happened to be a Templar.

The man shrugged, his hands again falling to his sides, apparently deciding the danger had passed. "I felt a mage, seemingly spying on His Majesty. I've been charged with keeping an eye on him during our trip south, and an unknown mage lurking about _is_ a potential threat, you can't deny that." His face tilted into a smirk again, eyes dancing. "But, I suppose I can safely assume you're not here to assassinate the King, are you, _Marian Hawke_."

It took a few seconds for her to find her voice again. "How do you know my name?"

Another shrug. "Bryant told me about the Hawke girls. I've already met Bethany, she was in the Chantry when we stopped by, so you must be Marian."

"But..." She blinked at him for a moment, the implications of that simple statement nearly making her dizzy. "That would... The Knight-Captain knows we're..."

"Well, yes. I understand his predecessor made a deal with your father ages ago. Something about helping with any magical or demonic issues that come up, I expect, Lothering is a bit in the middle of nowhere. No Circles around, you see, if the locals need magical help for something they might not have time for official aid to come all the way from Kinloch Hold. So, arrangement with local apostates. Happens all the time, in places like this. Just don't tell the Chantry mothers, though, they get all snitty."

That...made an odd kind of sense. And explained Dad disappearing for a week at a time here and there — must have been off helping the Templars out in the Wilds somewhere. No idea why he wouldn't have _told_ her. Or why Bryant hadn't brought it up yet, either. Wouldn't he want her to fill in for Dad, now that he was gone? But anyway, "You had far too much fun, springing that on me like that."

The man's smirk stretched wider. "This isn't the cheeriest profession in the world, you know. I take my entertainment where I can find it."

Yes, well, he was the one who'd join the Grey Wardens. Sounded like his damn problem. Though, she couldn't imagine being a Templar was really any better. "You know, you're a bit of a dick."

"Actually, you must have forgotten, I go by Alistair these days. Not sure if it's an improvement. _Bit-of-a-Dick_ — just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

She _almost_ laughed at that one, but thankfully managed to control herself. If she'd cracked up at _that_ thin of a joke, delivered by a Templar no less, she would have been a bit embarrassed with herself. Must be the adrenaline coming off, yes. "With every word that comes out of your mouth, I find myself struggling with the urge to punch you in the face."

And that just seemed to make him even more amused with himself, his eyes practically dancing. This guy, honestly... "Oh, you're not the only one. Happens all the time. Can't imagine why, how could anyone want to do any damage to this..." He trailed off, face taking a more sombre, serious cast, gloved fingers slowly slipping over his face. "... _singular_ work of art? What has this world come to, travesty, I say!"

Okay. That one was actually kind of funny. She was starting to get the odd feeling she might not actually mind this idiot, if it weren't for the whole Templar thing. Uncomfortable. "Yeah, you're really just making it worse." She managed to keep her own lips from curling into a smirk. She was pretty sure.

"Oh, don't strain yourself trying to hold back, I'm used to it by now. You wouldn't even be the first Hawke today, seriously, all the time."

Aaand now she entirely failed to contain a smirk. She couldn't help herself, the mental image she'd gotten was just too funny. "You really shouldn't have flirted with Bethany _in the Chantry_. She hates that. Did you catch the echo? She gets a good _ring_ out of it in there."

"That _does_ sound like fun, but, alas, I managed to control myself. It was your brother, actually. Kid has a mean right hook," he said, rubbing at his chin with a pained grimace.

Marian tilted her head a bit, getting a better look and, holy shit, he _did_ have a bruise there, just starting to come in. Carver had actually hit him! Yeah, definitely smirking now. "Maker's _breath_ , what the fuck did you _say_? I can count on my fingers the times Carver's gotten into a fight." Mostly over people being, ah, _untoward_ with Bethany — Carver could be a pain, but he really was quite adorable sometimes.

"Oh, I don't remember," the strange man said, with the unmistakable tone of someone who _definitely_ remembered. "I'm sure it wasn't _that_ bad. Might have suggested he'd been taught to hold a shield by one of his sisters. But I mean, really, after having met both of you, can't see why he should have taken that personally! You're very intense women, you know that?"

She was momentarily confused, wondering just why this idiot would have any reason to comment on how Carver held a shield, of all things. Far as she knew, they didn't even have a shield in the house. By the time he was done talking, though, it'd clicked.

And, in an instant, her chest had gone tight and hot with rage.

The King and his army weren't just stopping in Lothering on the way south as a courtesy, after all. They were recruiting. To fight against the Blight, they said, though Marian personally doubted it was a Blight at all. There were old caves and shit all over the place down there, darkspawn popped up from time to time, it wasn't unheard of. There was a reason the Crown hadn't managed to convince the Banns to call the levies. But anyway, a full week before they'd arrived, word had been sent ahead. Carver had started talking about joining up, but before he'd even gotten a full sentence out Marian had forbidden him to go. They'd argued, and argued, getting angrier and angrier — Bethany had actually forced them to opposite sides of the room when they'd started shoving each other, which was quite a thing, Bethany avoided using magic at all if she could help it. They'd gone on for hours, until Mother had gotten home, and settled the issue by telling Carver in no uncertain terms that he was _not_ leaving, she would never forgive him for abandoning them if he went.

But, apparently, the issue hadn't been settled. Carver, this idiot had just implied, had joined up with the King's army. And he hadn't told them, he was just going to vanish with them, without saying a word.

And she was angry. Ooh, she was _angry_ , her fists clenching without her meaning to, her teeth aching, the tension so great she was nearly choking with it, could barely breathe.

But, even when she was this overwhelmingly _enraged_ , she thought of her father without thinking, remembered what he'd taught her. Because getting _this_ angry could be dangerous, for them. There was a razor-thin line between being filled with rage, and _becoming_ Rage. So, without even really thinking, she let the feeling fill her, and flow through her, like casting any spell. Her anger radiating off of her, _like steam rising from a pot_ , he'd said, _like fog flowing off a lake._

It wasn't _feeling_ an emotion that was dangerous for a mage, he'd said. It was letting it build up, carrying it inside, letting it consume you, _that's_ what drew demons flocking into your shadow. _That's_ what would turn your dreams into nightmares, _that's_ what could make you weak to their influence, _that's_ what might see you Fall one day. She couldn't bottle it up. She had to let it out, she'd been taught to let it out. For the safety of everyone around her, not just her own happiness.

Though, of course, Dad being Dad, he had joked that everyone would be happier if they didn't go around bottling everything up, so he'd probably be giving her this advice either way. Sure, Dad, if you say so.

The idiot had backed off a step, face creased in a frown, hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. Probably feeling the anger slipping out of her, hot and thick like steam. She didn't doubt that might be a bit scary to a Templar. But that didn't really matter right now. Her voice a low, thick snarl, she said, "Excuse me, ser. I have to go drag my _stupid, self-righteous, selfish, cowardly little cunt_ of a brother back home. _By his ear_."

He blinked at her, his hand falling away from his sword. "Um... Have fun with that? I guess?"

"I will, thank you." And she turned on her heel, and sprinted off for the army camp, just to the south of the village. She hardly even noticed the packed dirt flee under her feet, hardly noticed the dingy wooden buildings whip by. She knew she passed people, some even calling out to her, but she didn't spare a thought for them, just kept running. Perhaps too fast, her rage was still burning high, it could be too easy for emotions to pull magic without any conscious choice, which probably wasn't smart, with Templars about, but—

She tore into the camp, passing figures in leathers or scale, a few rare flashes of plate here and there, staring at her, some jumping out of the way, swearing to each other, she slipped through the maze of tents, not sure how she knew where to go, but _knowing_ , she knew, she ran right toward him, he was just past this—

At the southern edge of the camp, where the sea of tents ended, the ground had been trampled even flatter than usual. The field was filled with soldiers, in light leathers, each bearing a sword and shield. Not a real sword, she noticed at a glance, but a length of iron wrapped in sheepskin. Drills, it only took seconds for her to decide these were recruits in training. Without a thought, she darted into the crowd, slipping around duelling pairs, a few times even ducking under swinging metal, following a feeling she couldn't quite describe.

And there he was. In tattered and rusted old scale armor, it had been their father's, fallen to disrepair since his death. His black hair heavy and sticky with sweat, not even looking at her, trading blows with a larger man, a noble's son, judging by the look of his clothes, the coat of arms on his shield. It took long enough for Marian to get to him to notice Carver had the other man on his heels, scrambling to defend himself under a rain of blows. Not bad, she had a feeling the other man had even been properly trained, which Carver certainly hadn't.

She wasn't any less furious with him, of course, but she was almost impressed.

With ease born of practice, Marian relaxed something deep inside, something more mental than physical, letting a sliver of the Fade slip into her. Directing the power toward her arm, believing herself to be harder, stronger than she truly was, she reached up toward Carver's ear, barely visible through the thick nest of soggy hair. And she grabbed.

And she pulled.

Carver let out a shocked groan, tipping backward with the force of her magic-assisted strength, latest swing aborted as he stumbled after her. Her ears deaf to his protests, deaf to the muttering and laughter of the men around them, Marian turned north again, back toward the village, yanking her idiot brother along with her.

She could barely hear a thing, her own blood pounding in her ears, could see little but a wide blur of red. She was hardly even aware of what she was doing. And she might have continued on that way for some while if her right arm didn't quite suddenly explode into piercing agony, a flash of white breaking apart her vision. She cradled her arm, nearly summoned the magic to heal it before remembering there were certainly people around, that would be far too obvious. Her breath coming in short, harsh hisses, she waited for the pain to lessen some, enough to properly figure out what just happened.

They were standing in the middle of the army camp, she could see that, dirt turned muddy, the tents flapping in the inadequate breeze. Inadequate because this many men packed into one spot could get quite smelly, some of this mud was probably piss, when she thought about it. This little path between tents was narrow enough, likely not meant for traffic, they were alone, she and Carver. He was panting, stubble-speckled face glaring at her, rubbing at one ear, in his other hand—

Marian blinked. That length of iron, an imitation of a proper sword, the padding had been stripped off, exposing the metal to the air. The sheepskin was instead draped over Carver's elbow. "You..." Marian frowned at her little brother, struggling to form the words. She glanced down, a reddish welt already showing on her bare forearm. "You _hit_ me." Carver had never actually hit her before. He'd yelled at her, yes, those rare times he'd gotten especially annoyed with her, insulted and cursed her. _Threatened_ violence before, yes, but never...

She couldn't quite wrap her head around what had just happened, the last remnants of her anger sputtering out. It just seemed...unreal somehow. Like she had to be dreaming this, it couldn't actually happen.

To Carver's credit, he looked nearly as dazed as she was, eyes wide, mouth working silently. Finally he drew himself up, brow dipping into a frown, with an unsteadiness that told her he was consciously forcing it into place. "Well, you weren't listening, and you weren't letting go."

"You were leaving." Just saying the words brought the anger flaring back. Still small, just a hot ember deep in her chest, but there. "You were just going to run off, you weren't even going to say anything."

His face twisted into a scowl. "There was no real point to saying anything, was there? You never listen."

" _I_ never listen?!" Marian couldn't help a derisive laugh, shaking her head to herself. "After what I said, after what Bethany said, after what _Mother_ said, you were still going to run off! You selfish little _shit_ , don't you care what—"

"Oh, yes, I'm the selfish one, I forget! I'm the selfish one, for wanting to do something about the Blight _before_ it kills everyone I care about! Of course, how _selfish_ of me!"

Marian ignored the bit about the Blight. If it _were_ a Blight, he might have a point, but she wasn't convinced it was. There were caves leading to the Deep Roads all over the place down there. Darkspawn popped up all the time. This was nothing new.

The more she told herself that, the less convincing it sounded. She pretended not to notice.

"This isn't some game, Carver, this isn't one of your stupid stories with knights and and whatever nonsense. This is _real life_. If you go out there, you could _die_ , and I _really_ don't want to find out how Mother would take that, do you?"

"I _know_ I could—" Carver broke off, letting out a frustrated growl. His free hand raised to his face, fingers slipping through his hair, rubbing at his cheek. "Yes, I might die, but it's a _fucking Blight_ , Marian! And we're standing between it and the rest of civilization! If nothing is done about it, who do you think will be the first to die? Which village is going to be wiped off the map first, hmm? Because I'm betting it's Lothering."

Marian grit her teeth, her fists clenching without meaning to, pulling at the throbbing ache on her right forearm. There would be no point to yelling at him though, Carver wouldn't be swayed by yelling, so she drew a long breath through her nose, then another, trying to keep herself calm. "They _say_ it's a Blight. People say a lot of things are a Blight, Chasind and Wilderfolk can get a bit panicky sometimes. How is this scare different than any other?"

The answer came instantly, flatly, confidently. "Because, this time, it's the Grey Wardens calling it a Blight."

Marian hitched, her response frozen in her throat, then leaned back, frowning to herself. That...was actually a good point. There were darkspawn scares in the far south all the time, but they were generally ignored by...well, everyone who didn't live there. But it wasn't being ignored this time. This time, the King and Teryn fucking Loghain were marching south with an army, Grey Wardens leading the way. If anyone should be able to tell a true Blight from a false alarm, it was the Wardens.

The rumor was the Warden-Commander was pretty damn sure.

"Then we run."

Carver jerked as though stung, blinked at her for a few seconds before finding his voice again. Even then, all he managed was, "What?"

"We run." Marian nodded to herself, more energy slipping into her voice the longer she spoke. "It could be a Blight, fine, but if it is, it won't be stopped before reaching Lothering. The very thought is absurd, no Blight was ever halted that soon. No matter what happens at Ostagar, everyone here will be in danger. So we run, we go back, we get Bethany and Mother, we pick up everything we can carry, and we run."

Still frowning, staring at her as though she had gone completely insane, Carver said, "Run where?"

"I don't know. Up to Highever or Amaranthine, take a ship across to the Marches. Mother has family in Kirkwall, right? I'm sure we'll be safer there than—"

"For how long, though? Do you really think the Blight will stop at—"

" _What else am I supposed to do?!"_ Her throat already hurting from that one sentence, Marian bit her lip, stopping herself from saying any more.

She'd been taking care of everything. Father had died, and Mother had basically fallen apart. Oh, she'd recovered by now, but she'd been completely useless for a couple years, weepy and empty, and they wouldn't have survived a couple years. Carver and Bethany had still been little, then, not even yet ten, and it had just been Marian. She'd kept the farm going, she'd maintained all of Dad's old traps and nets. Using magic to cheat, healing plants that she'd accidentally sabotaged somehow, fixing the traps she'd managed to break, which just made things worse more often than not, she didn't understand the mechanisms involved, he'd died before he could teach her.

More than a few times, she'd been reduced to hunting with elemental magic. She'd wait for an overcast day, rain just on the horizon, track down something, anything edible. Lightning from fingertips, she'd gotten pretty good at hitting the heads, leaving as much of the meat salvageable as possible.

Eventually, eventually she'd gotten a routine down, eventually she'd gotten good enough at this farming thing that she hardly _needed_ to use magic any more. After a couple years, Carver and Bethany were old enough to help, and that made it far easier. They weren't on the edge anymore, one minor mistake wouldn't see them starve.

But it had been a close thing. One year, the harvest had come in light, they hadn't had enough to sell to cover all the things they needed to buy. Marian had had to steal. A few simple spells, to distract attention, to levitate coins from purses. She'd only had to do it a couple times, but she had. She still hadn't told anyone about it — not Bethany, not Mother — even _thinking_ about it was...unpleasant, she just wanted to forget it ever happened.

She'd been taking care of everything. The food, the house, the money. She'd made sure, in the worst of her depression, that Mother was properly taking care of herself, that she wouldn't unthinkingly starve herself to death. She'd made sure Bethany learned what she needed to, that she could control her magic, that she could keep it secret, that she would be safe from demons. She'd made sure Carver had _actually gone_ to his lessons — and that hadn't been easy sometimes, it was a damned miracle the rebellious little shit could read.

She'd taken care of everything.

She _couldn't_ take care of a Blight.

The Maker really had to be a sadistic little shit, when she thought about it.

When she finally found her voice again, it came low, weak, a whisper barely above silence. She was aware of herself enough to be a little embarrassed, the sound of it far too thin and breathy and childish. "What else am I supposed to do?"

A glance up showed all the frustration had been wiped from Carver's face. That didn't mean she was any more happy with what she _did_ see, though. She wasn't sure how to read the sudden softness there, the light in his dark eyes, but it put something squirmy roiling in her stomach, she couldn't put words to exactly what. "Come with me." Her dumbfounded disbelief must have shown on her face, because Carver stepped closer, dropping the fake sword still in his hand to grip both of her shoulders leaning close over her.

It _still_ annoyed her that the little shit had gotten so much taller than her, over the last couple years. The lot of all elder sisters, she guessed.

Whispering low, thin and high enough it wouldn't carry, he said, "I know you're powerful, Marian. I may not be a mage, I may not know much about such things — shit, I've never even met a mage I wasn't related to — but I'm not an idiot. I don't need Bethany telling me about some of the things you pull in your little lessons to know that. Don't tell me you don't think you can help, don't tell me that."

She couldn't help wincing a little. She _did_ know she was...well, so far as such things went, she was closer to the top than the bottom. Not, like, absurdly gifted or anything, she couldn't hold a candle to some of the stories she'd heard of Dreamers and the like, but she knew she was significantly more powerful and talented than average. Of course, the only reason she knew this was because Father had told her so. Much as Carver had said a second ago, Marian had never met a mage she wasn't related to, but Father had grown up in the Circle at Kirkwall, so he'd met plenty. He'd said she was a far better mage than he was — it'd taken her some time to believe that, since the first time he'd said anything about it she'd only been seven or eight, hadn't known nearly as much magic back then — would have matched the best of his generation back in the Circle. Shit, he'd be shocked if, were she in a Circle, she wouldn't make Enchanter by thirty.

Not that she really knew what that meant. She had virtually no frame of reference for what other mages were capable of.

Point was, she would be far from useless, in practically any situation. But it wasn't quite that simple. She could be far from useless and still not contribute enough to make a difference. If it were anything other than a _fucking Blight_ , Carver might have a pretty good point. "Carver..."

"It's not _hopeless_ , Marian!" He looked slightly irritated again, mouth curving down and eyes narrowing, his fingers had tightened on her arms a little, but his voice stayed cautiously low. "Every Blight has been shorter than the last, every single one. It's not _impossible_ we could stop it. _Now_ , before it even gets this far north. Every little bit of help the Wardens get makes it just _that much_ more likely. I mean, Maker's breath, if the Blight is going to be stopped at any point in Ferelden, do you really think anyone is more likely to pull it off than _Teryn fucking Loghain?_ "

Marian frowned a little. "Darkspawn and _chevaliers_ are hardly the same thing." Even as she said it, she knew it wasn't a great argument. He was... Well, he was _Teryn fucking Loghain_. There was a reason he was widely considered the single greatest living military tactician in all the South. She'd heard rumors scholars on the subject in _bloody Tevinter_ had been studying a few of his tricks back in the rebellion, seriously...

By the look he was giving her, Carver didn't buy it any more than she did. "It _can_ be beat. I know that, that's why I have to help. But you could do..." He broke off with a huff, shaking his head to himself. She could see a shred of bitterness there, envy that had burned so long it had nearly sputtered out. "You would make _so much_ more of a difference than I ever could. You can't tell me I'm wrong."

"I..." Marian sighed, glaring up at him. Damn the little shit, he just had to go and be not entirely wrong. The chances of the Blight being beaten so quickly were slim to none, of course, but they were non-zero. And the two of them going _would_ make those chances greater. By a tiny margin, yes, but it was still _something_ , and Marian going with him _would_ do more to help than the idiot on his own. And, really, running away wasn't even that great of an option. They had trouble enough getting by here, if they let themselves be reduced to refugees they might never get back on their feet.

Not to mention, she realized with a start, Carver getting out of it alive was _much_ more likely if she was there to make sure of it. And if he was going to run off like a bloody fool no matter what she did...

Her heart suddenly pounding hard in her throat, Marian ran her tongue over her lips. "Well," she said after a long moment of silence, "it's not quite that simple, Carver. We'd be leaving Mother and Bethany on—"

"They'll be fine."

"With planting season coming up—"

"Do you _really_ think we'll be here long enough to harvest if the Blight isn't stopped?"

She winced. No. No, she didn't. "Well. This might have slipped your mind, Carver, but I am an apostate. If I start practicing magic _openly_..." She trailed off, shrugged. "At my age, I probably won't be sent to a Circle. They'll just execute me."

Carver jerked back a bit at that, a surprised frown crossing his face. Apparently, he _had_ forgotten about that. "Ah... Well, there aren't any Templars going, that I know about..."

Firstly, there _were_ Templars going — the Circle had sent mages to support the army, and that number of mages went nowhere without Templar escort. But that didn't even really matter. "There will be plenty of other people. Even people from Lothering, people who know who I am. If they see me throwing magic around..." She wouldn't be able to come back. If she went with him, and she fought, _really_ fought, and if they _won_...

He was silent a second, eyes flickering back and forth, clearly thinking. Then, his face cleared, brightened, like the sun spilling from behind the clouds, suddenly seeming far more cheerful, voice even rising a bit too high. "The Wardens! Tell the Wardens you're an apostate, they'll protect you!"

Marian frowned. That was true. The Wardens were infamous for using any means they deemed necessary to oppose the Blight, nowhere more obvious on a regular basis than their recruitment habits — outcasts, apostates, criminals. Shit, according to rumor the new Warden-Commander in Ferelden had been conscripted _at his own execution_. The Wardens would certainly shield her in exchange for her help, but she wasn't sure how far they would go without demanding she join them. If it got bad enough, if the Templars were demanding she be handed over, she would probably have to. So, it would be quite a risk. If she did end up having to become a Warden, she'd never be going back home.

There was no leaving the Wardens. It was a commitment for life. Everyone knew that.

Her heart pounded harder, almost painfully, her blood heavy all through her head, a cold rock sinking into her stomach, as something finally sunk in. It was inevitable. She, at the very least, wouldn't be staying in Lothering. She didn't truly believe the Blight would be ended before it reached Lothering, the whole family would have to flee. If she went with Carver — and he would go whether she went with him or not, the little shit would surely sneak out no matter what she did — she would either have to flee the Templars or join the Wardens to shield herself from them. Even _if_ the Blight was held back, she'd just learned today the local Templars already knew full well who she was. If the Knight-Captain was replaced at any point, there was no guarantee his successor wouldn't be told about her, there was no guarantee he would leave her unmolested.

She couldn't stay. Even in the best case scenario, be it two or five years from now, she would have to leave eventually. She would have to leave Lothering.

In that moment, even while the horror of the realization still chilled her, she... Well, she didn't think that was too much of a bad thing. She'd admit she'd gotten a bit...tired. Was tired the word? She'd never even let herself consider leaving home, she'd never even let herself consider, she didn't know, getting married, or, or, whatever it was people who didn't want to be farmers ended up doing with themselves. She had to stay, her family needed her. Only now, even if _they_ could stay in Lothering, they didn't truly need her anymore. It might be difficult at first, but they would make it. She could...

Well, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, running away wasn't an entirely unpleasant thought. Even if she had absolutely no idea what she'd do with herself. She just...

Marian bit her lip, frowning up at Carver. She doubted he'd put together what she had. She wasn't sure how he'd feel about it if he had. But, in the end, it didn't really matter. He was right, she could help. He was right, Mother and Bethany would be fine for a few months without them. He would be going no matter what, but she could make sure he came back alive. She might be forced to leave, but that was inevitable, no matter what happened. She could help, it would be better if she helped.

And, well, as insane as it sounded, it could even be fun. Joining the King to fight darkspawn would certainly be the most interesting thing she'd ever done in her entire life.

Forcing a sigh through her yet uncomfortably tight throat, Marian shook Carver's hands off her shoulders, stepped around him to start back toward the village. It took a moment for Carver to move, only starting after her once she'd already passed the next tent. "Hey, Marian! Where are you going?"

Without breaking step, Marian glanced over her shoulder, throwing him a glare. "I'm going to go track down Warden Alistair and offer my services. You should go back to playing soldier." With a dismissive flick of her fingers, she turned away, continued on.

She pretended not to hear her idiot little brother's shout of victory.

Somehow, as she left the army camp and stepped back into the village, tracking down that aggravating ex-Templar, she just knew it. There was no way this wasn't going to blow up in her face.

* * *

 _9:30 Pluitanis 17_

 _Brecilian Wilderlands, Kingdom of Ferelden_

* * *

The first thing Lýna thought on waking was that she would rather she hadn't woken at all. Her blood was aflame, an agonizing heat setting her flushed and shivering, every inch of her consumed with an unyielding ache. Rather like exhaustion, the heavy burn that could set into muscles overused, but evenly throughout her whole body, so universal no exertion could have caused it. Her throat was dry, so severely parched her breath held a slight hint of blood, her stomach roiled with almost dizzying force.

And the hissed arguing from nearby really wasn't doing her head any favors.

"Ooh, you're awake. I was worried you wouldn't."

That was Mẽrhiļ, she recognized her voice after only a moment. She forced her eyes open, and immediately regretted it — the faded light of late evening pierced deep into her skull, blinding and setting her teeth to aching. She couldn't help a groan, reflexively trying to turn away. Which _really_ didn't ease the pain everywhere else.

"Shush, shush," Mẽrhiļ muttered, her voice almost uncharacteristically soft and warm. A short pause, and Lýna felt hands on her, head and chest, only making the pain worse, but just for a second. The talented First didn't hesitate at all, healing magic radiating from her fingers before Lýna could barely twitch, soothing the agony with exquisite suddenness, like cool spring water spilling down a fiery throat, forcing a moan of relief through her lips. "It's okay, Cousin. I have you. You'll be okay."

Despite the clearly dreadful circumstances she'd woken up to find herself in — she had no clue what was happening, but by how much it _hurt_ it couldn't be good — she felt a thin smile pulling at her lips. She and Mẽrhiļ weren't actually cousins. They weren't related at all, so far as they knew, from two entirely different clans, in fact. Clans they had both left for this one, for their own reasons. They'd ended up close, Lýna couldn't even remember how it'd happened anymore. She'd been young at the time. "I don't feel so great."

"Well, no, obviously." She was trying to keep her voice light, but Lýna could feel her dread, too powerful to be entirely contained.

Something very bad was happening. She was still dizzy with whatever sickness had struck her, not yet entirely awake, she didn't remember. But she knew it. "What happened to me?" If she were more herself at the moment, she might have cringed at the fearful quiver on her own voice.

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us that."

When she heard the unfamiliar voice, despite the pain it had brought her last time, she couldn't stop her eyes from springing open. Luckily, it wasn't nearly as bad this time. It only took her a second to spot the stranger. He was tall and broad, hair a shiny black and skin a deep brown, eyes dark and sharp. He wore glittering armor of an unfamiliar whitish metal, built of tiny scales that shifted and sparkled in the dying light. Two blades hung from his belt, one significantly shorter than the other. Despite that he was obviously a warrior, despite the intensity in those glimmering eyes, his face was pulled into something surprisingly gentle, concerned.

Her first thought, when she'd heard the suspiciously thick, deep voice, fluently speaking Alamarri, hadn't been wrong: the man was _human_. Even more shockingly, he was human, standing free among the clan, and still carried his weapons.

She had absolutely no idea what was going on.

After staring at him in uncomprehending silence for a few seconds, she noticed the older woman standing just at his shoulder — shorter, slighter, hair a bright silver, features pulled into a worrying look of trepidation, but clearly elven. It took Lýna a moment, her vision still blurred and thoughts still sluggish, to recognize her. "Keeper? Who is..." She trailed off, working her throat to clear the muck from it. Even with Mẽrhiļ's magic running through her, her head spun, and she collapsed back to the ground. Huh, she hadn't even realized she'd tried to sit up...

"His name is Duncan, child." The Keeper was speaking Alamarri as well — surely for the stranger's benefit, Lýna was far from fluent in the local human tongue. "He is a Grey Warden, searching for recruits to stand against the rising Blight. He found you in the forest, deathly ill, and returned you to us."

Lýna felt her face pull into a frown. "How did he know where to find us?"

Somewhat to her surprise, despite that she had spoken in Deluvẽ, the Warden answered without pause. "I assure you, Lyna, your people are in no danger from me. There are persistent rumors of Dalish in these lands, and I made a few guesses where you might be, considering the geography of the region. It was merely good fortune I found you so quickly." His eyes dancing with a hidden hint of sly humor, he said, "I've shared these guesses with no one, nor do I plan to."

For a few seconds, she could only blink up at the man, caught by a few things. For one, he'd pronounced her name... _almost_ correctly — better than any of the few humans who'd ever had the opportunity to attempt it, anyway. For another, assuming he could be taken at his word, this man fully intended to shield them from the locals, or he would if it should ever come up. For another, though his continued use of Alamarri suggested he couldn't speak it, that he could answer her at all meant he could understand Deluvẽ just fine.

She'd only met this man a few seconds ago, and she already had no idea what to think of him.

It took a few moments to collect her thoughts enough to actually speak. It was a little embarrassing, actually, but she was sick with...something, no matter how much Mẽrhiļ's magic was helping, so she couldn't really help it. "Well. At least the Wardens are doing something about the Blight. _Finally_."

This Duncan gave her an odd, confused look at that — maybe his Deluvẽ wasn't good enough? When he shot the Keeper a questioning frown, she released a sigh, heavy with all the grief and exhaustion of the last couple years. "Until recently, we've made the Wilds far to the south our home. The Blight may be just reaching Ferelden, but it has been rising in the wilderness for over a year now." Her voice wavered, the minimal accent on her Alamarri strengthening. "Many were lost."

Also switching to Alamarri, her voice sharp and angry, Mẽrhiļ said, "Lýna lost her husband."

She was a little taken aback by the hard glare Mẽrhiļ shot the Warden, intense enough the healing spell flickered a little. Mẽrhiļ being a bit...protective of her wasn't new, in itself. Lýna had still been young when, shortly after bringing her with them to the clan, both of her parents had died — for reasons she still didn't entirely understand, her old clan had a very nasty reputation, and if Mẽrhiļ hadn't decided to look after her she would have had almost no one. But, just how personally _angry_ with the Warden she seemed didn't entirely make sense. If he'd just brought her here, hadn't he just saved her life? Shouldn't she be pleased with him?

No, something else was going on here.

To his credit, this Duncan looked appropriately sympathetic at the news, mouth drooping and eyes sparkling. Voice low, thick with compassion, he said to the Keeper, "I'm sorry, I had no idea. The Wardens have little presence this far—" He broke off with a hum, clearly deciding his excuses would do them no good. He turned back to Lýna. "I'm truly sorry, Lyna."

Lýna just stared back at him, eyes wide with shock. That last bit, he'd spoken in Deluvẽ. His pronunciation was atrocious, barely understandable, but still...

Not that his sympathy was necessary. She wasn't _that_ broken up over Muthallã. They hadn't been close before they'd bonded — he'd been one of the kids who'd bullied her when she'd been younger, actually — and he'd only died...two months later? It hadn't been long, anyway, she hadn't much time to grow attached to him. Really, she and Tallẽ weren't even officially bonded yet, and she already—

Without thinking, Lýna sprung up to sitting, nearly striking Mẽrhiļ's head with her own. Mẽrhiļ jerked out of the way, the healing spell cut off. The pain did come flooding back, but it wasn't as bad as before, just the muscles she was actually using at the moment cramping, only a little. Her voice so thick with panic she could barely get the words out, she hissed, "Tallẽ! Tallẽ was with me! Where is he?"

The Keeper's expression turned even grimmer, looking almost stricken. "I'm sorry, child. He has not returned. The hunters have been scouring the area, but there's been no word."

She grit her teeth, but shook the thought off. "Did you tell them to stay away from the ruins? They _have_ to stay away!"

"The ruins?" That was the Warden, looking somewhat unsure. "Which ruins?"

Her voice going soft again, pleading, the Keeper said, "Please, child, tell us what happened. If we are to find Tallẽ, if we are to save you..."

She blinked at that. "Save me?" She turned a confused frown to Mẽrhiļ. "Aren't I already...?"

"Well, no, I'm afraid." Face gone stony, Mẽrhiļ was looking a bit away, down at the ground between them, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. "I can _delay_ Blight sickness, but I can't..."

The realization struck Lýna as ice, running hard and sharp through her veins, so sudden and so intense she felt herself on the edge of shivering. Blight sickness. She'd seen it before, of course, several in their clan had died of it over the last months. She knew what that meant, without a doubt.

Even with all their power, all their knowledge of the Ancients, even the Keeper and her First couldn't cure the Blight.

But Lýna forced the thought off as well as she could, drawing a long, slow breath that shuddered only slightly in her throat. If it _was_ the Blight, and she trusted Mẽrhiļ enough to know it was, there was nothing that could be done about her, she didn't matter anymore. Keeping her voice as calm and level as she could, Lýna told them about the ruins she and Tallẽ had found, the mirror they had found deep within, black and sick and so thick with magic Lýna's skin had tingled with it.

"A mirror?" For a second, Lýna had thought her Alamarri was just bad enough he needed to ask to clarify what she'd meant — she was _trying_ to accomodate the Warden, since he'd be the one taking care of all this, but she wasn't very good at it. A glance up at him, though, how he'd leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought, no, that was something else. "Corrupted, obviously, but I hadn't even known they _could_ be corrupted..."

After a bit more frowning to himself and muttering, the Warden jerked, seeming to suddenly remember he wasn't alone with his thoughts. He cleared his throat, shooting the Keeper a sheepish smile. "Yes, sorry. I'm familiar with these mirrors. _Elavúm_ , they're called, an old Tevinter invention. I've seen one before, though it was long shattered. It is curious they could become corrupted, though, only living things can carry the Blight."

Lýna opened her mouth to argue that, while that hadn't been an _ordinary_ elven ruin, it had no doubt been elven — chances were that mirror had been made by the Ancients, not _Tevinter_. But she caught the significant glance shared between Mẽrhiļ and the Keeper. She knew, somehow, that not only did they know the Warden was wrong, but they knew _exactly_ what that mirror was. They knew better than she, and they clearly felt no need to correct the human. So she held her tongue.

And she didn't open her mouth again. It really seemed her participation wasn't necessary for this conversation.

* * *

"Ooh, I knew it, I _knew_ it, I was right!" Despite how weak Lýna had grown — she could barely keep her eyes open, her head pounding with each beat of her heart — she couldn't help a smile at the childlike glee on Mẽrhiļ's voice.

The ever-energetic First had kept an almost constant monologue ever since the ruin had come into sight, alternately rising with excitement and falling with awe. As Lýna had, she'd noticed the odd design of the place, its frequent elven symbolism in statuary and frieses but too thick and rough with too many hard angles to have been built by the Ancients. But, unlike Lýna, Mẽrhiļ actually had an explanation: this place dated to the time of the Ancients, but had been _built_ by dwarves. A sort of gateway, a bridge between their worlds. The Keeper had told her such places existed, she said, but she'd never seen one herself.

The Warden had just said that _would_ explain why there were so many darkspawn here. Such a place would have naturally had access to the Deep Roads, after all.

And there had been darkspawn — which was odd, there hadn't been when Lýna and Tallẽ had been here — and quite a few of them, at that. But they hadn't posed any issue at all. There was a reason they'd brought Mẽrhiļ along. She incinerated darkspawn after darkspawn with fire from her fingertips, almost casually, seeming to pay more attention to the ruins, eyes focused on the faded images and inscriptions on the walls. More than anything, she'd just seemed annoyed with the mindless monsters trying to kill them, summarily destroying them with impatient little huffs, waving a hand to blow away the sickening smell of burning flesh. She had handled them so easily, the Warden had long since sheathed his blades, focused entirely on supporting Lýna as she shuffled and stumbled.

Sometimes Lýna forgot just how scary Mẽrhiļ and the Keeper could be. Mages seemed all too mortal most of the time.

It hadn't taken long at all for them to reach the room with the mirror. As the Warden gently lowered Lýna to her knees, she aimed a glare at the thing. It _would_ be pretty enough, the elegantly curving frame silver and gleaming, untarnished by age, if it weren't for the taint infecting the glass itself. It was black and purple, the non-colors slowly shifting, as though the mirror were filled with some gelatinous goop. The magic was so thick Lýna could feel it, prickling at her skin and making her eyes itch, but it wasn't just magic. There was something...off about it, something that was just _wrong_. She couldn't put words to exactly what it was, exactly what it felt like, but it made her eyes water, her stomach clench. The fever Mẽrhiļ's magic had temporarily held back was rising again, leaving Lýna flushed and shivering, breath biting at her throat.

As she watched Mẽrhiļ approach the mirror in a reverent daze, her ears started ringing, low but growing louder, clearer, ever so slowly.

"Do you know what this is?" Mẽrhiļ's voice was low and breathy, so quiet Lýna almost couldn't hear her over the ringing. She reached toward the Blighted glass with one hand, fingers shaking. Before her skin could meet it, a blue-white glow suddenly blossomed at her fingertips. Mẽrhiļ snatched her hand back as though scalded. "Corrupted, of course it had to be. Creators damn whoever made the cursed thing."

She winced. Of course they would be speaking Alamarri. She'd be lucky to understand every word on a good day, and with her headache getting worse this was _hardly_ a good day.

"You mean the Blight?" That was the Warden, gradually nearing Mẽrhiļ's back. She couldn't see his face from here, but by the tension in his shoulders Lýna was guessing he was very uncomfortable about something. "Nobody _made_ the Blight."

Lýna did catch the exasperated glance Mẽrhiļ threw over her shoulder. "Where did it come from, then? Nature does not destroy itself, not on its own."

"It is a curse from the Maker, for daring to go where no mortal should."

Mẽrhiļ shook her head, turned back to the mirror. Her voice light, "Not at all an evil god you worship, this Maker. Seven idiots break into his house, punishes all the world with the Blight. No, that seems the just and proper thing to do, I agree."

That had always bothered Lýna — she didn't see how the humans could worship a god they _claimed_ was responsible for the Blight, especially one who had released it over something so...trivial. She doubted that was a very tactful thing to say to a believer's face, though. At least the Warden didn't rise to the bait at all, just let out a little huff. He almost sounded amused, actually.

" _This_ is odd, though."

The amusement on his voice growing ever more obvious, the Warden said, "Is there anything about all this that isn't odd?"

"Well, no, I suppose not, I just mean— See, here." Mẽrhiļ reached up, pointing at the swirling shapes making up the top of the mirror. "These are wolves. See?"

Lýna frowned, tried to force her bleary eyes to focus. She was right: the top side of the frame had been carved into the shape of wolf heads, a few smaller, but one larger, turned downward to gaze at those standing before the mirror, its bright eyes gleaming. She glanced around the room, the odd feeling only intensifying. The colors had long faded, the shapes blurred, but there were still things to make out. She spotted a few vague shapes in the mosaic on the floor that seemed to be more wolves, though some might be dwarves. The wall to the right, those were dwarves, she thought, it was hard to tell, but the hard lines, the beards, yes, dwarves, but to the left? The scene depicted there was...well, odd. There was a man, an elven man, in green and white robes, holding a long staff, longer than he was tall. Kneeling at his feet were more elves, their heads bowed, curving lines that were probably a spell of some kind flowing from his hand down to them. Behind the man, his shadow rose somehow above them, but it wasn't a natural shadow, threaded through with red and blue, curling over his head in what seemed the maw of a wolf, stretching behind him, contorting and twisting, near the back corner forming into black wolves, a whole pack of them, their eyes blue and their fangs white.

Now that she thought about it, a disproportionate number of the statues out in the rest of the ruin had involved wolves somehow. A couple of dragons, yes, a few that were clearly supposed to be dwarves, or dwarven things, but mostly wolves. One, most curious, an elven woman, with wings of a dragon spread wide in place of arms, curled around her feet, tall enough its head reached her waist even sitting, yet another damn wolf.

She had a suspicion, heavy like a wet cloak draped over her shoulders, who that wolf, who this man was supposed to be. But...that didn't make any sense. It made _less_ than zero sense, it was all wrong.

"Is there a problem with wolves?"

Mẽrhiļ turned to give the Warden an impatient look. "Yes," she said, slow and flat, "there is a problem with wolves. Well, I mean, they're not _bad_ , it just doesn't make sense. This is an elven ruin, see, an _old_ elven ruin."

The Warden nodded, shrugging a little. "I suppose it must be. Seems a little off to me, but..."

"Yes, a little. The dwarves were involved, too. But, see—" Mẽrhiļ broke off, face scrunching in confusion, forcing her lips into a pout. "It doesn't make _sense_. The wolves everywhere, those could only be one thing. I even saw, there was an inscription that wasn't too faded, it said something about friendship with _He Who Walks Alone_. That's another name for the Wolf, you see."

"I don't, I'm afraid."

Mẽrhiļ gave the Warden a flat sort of look, disbelief he wouldn't know something so fundamental written all over her face. At least, Lýna was pretty sure that's what that was — her vision was slowly getting blurrier, she couldn't be certain. "The Wolf. The _Dread_ Wolf."

Joining her in front of the mirror, the Warden let out a long noise of realization, one hand coming up to rub at his scraggly chin. "I believe I've heard of this. That's the evil god who betrayed and sealed away the rest of the elven gods. Right?"

"Yes, precisely. Well—" Mẽrhiļ tilted her head, raising her shoulders in a shrug. "— _evil_ , maybe too strong a word. Doesn't matter, close enough. But, see, the weird thing— Did you see this place! No, this is all wrong. The People do not worship He Who Walks Alone. Show Him wary respect? Yes. Fear? Sometimes. But _veneration?_ No, no, this is all wrong." Mẽrhiļ spun on her heel, loose stones cracking under her feet, started off toward the mosaic on the wall _seemingly_ depicting the Dread Wolf, though not in any fashion Lýna had seen Him. Fingers floating an inch over the surface, Mẽrhiļ rambled away, theories pouring over her lips about what this place was for, what relationship the Wolf might have had with the dwarves, wondering if certain myths had been misinterpreted over the years, maybe—

While Mẽrhiļ's back was turned, distracted by her thoughts, the Warden drew the shorter of his weapons with a tight flourish. Blade pointed back toward his elbow, he twisted, jabbing the point straight for the center of the mirror. At the harsh scrape of a sword drawn, Mẽrhiļ had whipped back around, eyes going wide with shock. " _No, don't_ —" She reached out, fingers already glowing with rising magic.

But she was too slow.

The metal of the blade, silver glimmering greenish in the thin magical light, struck glass with a tinking sound, reverberating unnaturally deep. A flash of blue light rose from the impact, so dim Lýna was half-convinced she was imagining it, raced across the glass toward the edge. With a high snapping noise, the mirror didn't crack so much as _explode_ , dozens of razor shards flying out in a rush of sudden motion. Lýna ducked reflexively, wincing as she felt a fragment whip past her ear. Even halfway across the room, Mẽrhiļ was only spared by the flickering green halo of protective magic she'd summoned around her, cursed glass sparking as it struck.

When it was over, glass raining to the ground with a chorus of tinkling, Mẽrhiļ dropped her barrier, immediately whirling on the Warden, face flushing red. "You— What are— Why— What is _wrong_ with you?!"

The Warden stared down at her, face pulled into something hard and severe. Casually returning the blade to its sheath, he said, "The mirror was and would remain a threat to any unlucky enough to stumble across it. It had to be destroyed."

"Destroyed? It was the _taint_ that was dangerous, not the mirror itself!" Even in her fury, there was a slight hesitation over the Alamarri word _mirror_ , Mẽrhiļ apparently deciding not to use the proper term at the last instant. She held out a hand, then clenched it into a fist, a sharp sense of magic snapping in the air. Bits of glass slid across the floor, all yanked to pile in a single spot, gathered haphazardly at a spot halfway between the two of them. Lýna could see the shards were still black, sick magic still wafting off of them in a haze nearly visible. "Hmm, still seems tainted to me. Do you have any idea what that was? How valua—"

"Dammit." The Warden had raised a hand to his head, armored fingers rubbing at his temple, an annoyed frown directed at pile of the Blighted glass. "My apologies. I thought that would release—" He broke off, shaking his head to himself. A rueful smile tilting his lips, he muttered, "I suppose I should take these with me."

"You will _not_." The way the big Warden startled at the sudden sharpness on the tiny woman's voice was really quite funny. "I will keep them. I'll cleanse them myself." Mẽrhiļ hissed, a grimace twisting her face. "I'm going to need a _lot_ of nugs..."

"Nugs? What are you going to—"

"Yes, hello?" Both Mẽrhiļ and the Warden jumped at Lýna's voice, turning to her with matching sheepish winces. Summoning her less-than-perfect Alamarri, she said, "This...fun, but, will cure me now, maybe?"

It only took a minute for the two of them, now that they'd been startled back into motion, to put together the potion that would save Lýna's life, if only temporarily. She felt her lip curl with revulsion as she watched the Warden draw some blood from a nearby grey and black corpse into a goblet he'd pulled from his back. Not that it was a surprise — the rumor among her people was the Wardens used some kind of blood magic to empower themselves against the darkspawn, though nobody knew the details. He'd actually told Mẽrhiļ shortly after entering the ruin to leave at least one he could get blood from. She'd expected it would involve darkspawn blood, it was still disgusting. The Warden poured a couple other things into the goblet, one a glowing blue liquid that _had_ to be lyrium, swirled it around a bit before asking Mẽrhiļ to prime it with a quick bit of lightning.

And barely a moment later, Lýna was holding the heavy, tarnished goblet in her hands, frowning down at the potion inside. It was black, the magic within flickering like rainbow reflections on the surface, the stuff was thick enough it stuck to the sides where it'd sloshed, only slowly slipping back down. And she hesitated.

The deal had been made, back before they'd left. Lýna would show the Warden to the ruin. In exchange, he would give her the Wardens' very secret almost-cure. It wouldn't cleanse her of the Blight entirely, but it would push it back, delay it. For years, possibly decades. Or it might kill her instantly — darkspawn blood _was_ horrifically poisonous, and magic could be unpredictable, it didn't always work. But with how quickly the Blight sickness had struck her, unusually quickly, she'd be dead soon anyway, it made little difference.

But, even if she lived, she wouldn't be going back to the clan. This not-quite-a-cure was the Grey Warden initiation ritual, he'd said. Once she drank, she would be one of them. And there was no leaving the Grey Wardens. It was a commitment for life.

Everybody knew that.

So she hesitated, but only for a moment. What reason was there to not go through with it? She'd be dead if she didn't drink, in maybe a couple days. The life of a Grey Warden didn't sound entirely pleasant, but it was better than nothing. She'd rather protect people from the Blight, even be they perfect strangers, than be dead. When it came down to it, it really wasn't a choice at all.

With a last shaky smile at Mẽrhiļ, ignoring the clenching of her own stomach, Lýna raised the goblet to her lips and threw it back.

The Song overtook her so quickly she was gone before she hit the floor.

* * *

[Magic exists...world or beyond.] — _Transfigurations 1:2_

[But the one who...and her sword.] — _Transfigurations 10:1_

[the abyss, the well of all souls. Among those emerald waters,] — _Paraphrased from Andraste 14:11_

Mẽrhiļ — _Yes, this is supposed to be Merril. I really don't like the conlanging done for the games, so I've taken my usual touch with it. Modern Dalish in particular is a bit...odd, from an English-speaking perspective. To not be too overwhelming for people who aren't such conlanging nerds, I'll actually be using Dalish as infrequently as possible. When DA2 stuff does come along, and Merril is around a lot, I'll be using the canonical spelling. At least partially because those scenes will be mostly narrated by humans who mispronounce her name anyway, but still._

Deluvẽ — _By the way, this is the name for Dalish (i.e. elvish) in itself. Derived ultimately from "Dalish" and canon elvish "nuvenin". (I'm assuming canon "Dales" has nothing to do with the English word, mostly for convenience.) The term technically doesn't refer to a single language, but any one of the various closely-related languages spoken by the diaspora originating from the shattered nation in the Dales. It wouldn't apply to, say, ancient elvish, or the languages spoken by various elven communities in the north (Rivain, Tevinter, the Donarks). Which are all related, of course, but more than distinct enough to be considered different languages._

 _Going on a ramble here, but it's completely unreasonable to depict modern-day Dalish elves even partially understanding ancient elven, considering the millennia separating them. I'm not even certain Dalish clans should all speak the exact same language anymore, given the seven centuries since the fall of the Dales and how far they range. The Arlathvhen alone shouldn't be enough to prevent their dialects from drifting. But I'm a linguistics nerd, don't mind me._

Tallẽ — _Tamlen. And yes, Lýna really does lose a husband and then a fiance to the Blight before even joining the Wardens. I'm an evil bitch like that._

Elavúm — _The Classical Tevene word for eluvians._

* * *

 _Title is from Andraste 1:6. "Should for all seasons laments ring the sky-vaults, / Should dirges all sagas and histories replace? / By gods forsaken, fate emptied of hope, / Wounded I fell then, by grief arrow-studded, / Never to heal, death for me come." So, that's a good omen._

 _That was Inquisitor, Hawke, and finally Warden, in case that wasn't obvious. They won't all be in every chapter — obviously, Trevelyan won't have much of a part in the story for a while, what with being nine and the Inquisition not being formed for another 13 years and all. While sort of mostly following the plot of all three games, I will be doing a lot of shit you're plain not allowed to do. It frustrates me sometimes in games like this when I can't do something the way I want._

 _I say "will be doing" as though I'm likely to ever get to this fic. Personally, I really like the idea, but it is a rather enormous project, and I have many distractions._

 _On to the next._


	9. Inescapable

**_Inescapable_**

* * *

Lily didn't know what to do. She was so _angry_.

She'd known Severus existed for a couple years, but she'd never really payed that much attention to him. He was just there. Other kids made fun of him for the honestly kinda silly clothes he always wore, that he was all tiny and scrawny and kinda dirty a lot. Lily never had though. She was pretty sure his family was poor. So none of that was his fault. She didn't think it was fair to be mean to someone for something they couldn't control.

It wasn't until a few months ago that she'd started paying attention to him at all. She'd been in the playpark, rather late, with her sister. She'd noticed they were alone, no one else was around, so she'd decided to mess around with magic. She'd been able to make things happen forever, her parents said, though it wasn't until she was...five? Five-ish, around then she figured out how to do it on purpose. She couldn't do a lot, but it was fun to play with. Mum and Dad had told her not to do it where anyone could see, and playing around with it in public always made Tuney really nervous, even if nobody was around, but it was too fun not to do it sometimes.

And Severus just had to spot her playing around! Silly boy had been hiding in the bushes. That was such a...such a... Well, something that began with a "k" sound, anyway, forgot the word. French-sounding. But it turned out he was magic too! He couldn't do as many things as she could, and trying to copy some of the big things she could do gave him a headache sometimes, but he was still magic. It was cool meeting another magic kid. She'd been wondering if she might be the only one.

It hadn't taken very long for her to figure out Severus's dad was _mean_. Very mean. He was not a nice man. She'd told her parents about it, and Dad had helped her write an "anomynous tip" to the police. Amonynous? Anoniny... Whatever. Anyway, she'd sent the thing. One day she'd seen a police car drive up in front Severus's house down the block and she'd nearly been bouncing with happiness.

Well, not _nearly_ , she guessed. Her magic was funny like that.

But nothing happened! They just talked a bit and left! And the next day, Severus didn't show up at school! Or the day after! And when she finally saw him one afternoon he...he had _bruises!_

No. This was unacceptable.

But she didn't know what to do!

So here she was, down by the creek under her favourite maple tree, just glaring at the water. Sometimes turning to punch the tree behind her — with magic, not her fists, that would hurt. She'd set some of the grass on fire a couple times on accident, it was hard to hold it in. And her chest hurt and her head hurt and she felt so _helpless_ and she _hated_ it and she was trying not to cry, but she didn't think she was doing very well.

He was a _bad man!_ He should— He should—

She didn't know, really. Something bad. He was hurting Severus, and he was hurting Missus Snape, and no one was _doing anything_ about it, and that was _not okay_.

'Mm, no, it isn't.'

With a kinda embarrassing squawk, Lily jumped, whirled around to face the way the voice had come from. And then just stared, only half-aware her mouth was hanging open.

She looked like a girl. Maybe a year or two older than her, not by very much, a little bit taller, her clear face slightly tanned, solid black hair in a long plait down her back, flickering dark eyes. She was dressed slightly weird, but not too weird, Lily guessed. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt a deep red and trousers black, both made out of a smooth shiny cloth, hanging a bit loosely off her, leather boots a dark brown. Kinda weird, because that was sort of tomboyish, Lily thought might be the word, but she had a clipping from some plant twisted into a ring around her head, vivid green leaves and bright white flowers, which was so _not_ boyish at all.

But...she didn't feel right. Lily didn't know what it was. It was...like trying to look at the sun, but knowing it was too bright and you couldn't, like standing too close to a fire, so warm it hurt. But it wasn't exactly that. It was in that part of her that could feel it when Severus did magic, or when she put her own magic inside of something else. But stronger than anything she'd felt before, like there was _more_ of it...

Lily completely forgot she'd been busy being angry a second ago.

The not-girl gave her a crooked smile, teeth winking perfectly white. 'Now, now, Lily. Didn't your mother tell you it's rude to stare?'

She guessed she should be embarrassed, but she was too distracted. A few questions ran through her mind in rapidfire, competing with each other to get out first, until she blurted out, 'What are you?' Yep, that was rude.

'That's a story for another day, I'm afraid. Who knows, I might explain someday, but that's not what I'm here for now.'

Lily blinked. Not what she'd guess someone would say to that question. 'What are you here for?'

The not-girl's smile grew wider, turned sharp. With hard fire in her eyes, she said, 'He is hurting Severus, he is hurting Missus Snape. And nobody is doing anything about it.' She walked a little closer to Lily, her steps too light and smooth, like she wasn't quite there, wasn't as solid as she looked. 'It is _not_ okay.' And the not-girl leaned closer to Lily, far too close, until their faces were only a few inches apart, the flickering in her eyes turning orange and red, Lily couldn't look away. 'He is a bad man. He should... He should...' Her head tilted a bit to the side, eyebrow lifting a little, though kinda hard to tell from this close. 'He should _what_ , child? Hmm?'

Lily wanted to back away. She was too bright, and too hot, and it...well, not _hurt_ , exactly. It was just...a lot. Like she was filled with too much of something that wasn't normally there, and it was bouncing, and giggling, and she could barely breathe, getting all dizzy. Not good. No idea what was happening.

Those flowers in her hair were really quite silly.

After a few seconds, it was weirdly hard to think right now, she got back to the question she'd been asked. And about that, had the not-girl been reading her mind or something? Creepy. She didn't have to think about the question very long. That too-much-something that was in her squeezed, and she felt her chest go all tight, and she was filled with fire, and she just felt so _angry_. Her voice a low hiss, forced through her teeth, she said, ' _He should hurt.'_

She felt like she should feel bad for thinking it. But she didn't. He was hurting people, people that he should love, but he didn't, because he was _stupid_ , and _mean_ , and _terrible_. He wasn't going to stop on his own, that was obvious. So _he_ should be hurt, and maybe then he would stop.

And if he still wouldn't stop, maybe he had to _be stopped_.

'Would you like me to help you make him stop?'

Lily's eyes went wide, and for long moments she could only stare at the not-girl. Was... Was she really saying what Lily thought she was saying? That was sort of... Well, she guessed the not-girl was really strong, she could feel that. At least, she was pretty sure that's what she was feeling. Mister Snape was a big bloke, and there wasn't anything Lily could do to him on her own. Maybe she could get lucky with magic, but both Severus and Missus Snape were magic, and they'd never been able to do anything. But the not-girl might be different. Maybe she could actually help!

The flowers were still silly though.

The not-girl raised one eyebrow a bit at that, her sharp smile tipping into more of an unhappy smirk. 'Yes, yes, the flowers are silly. My mother slaps something like this on me whenever she sees me. Says I need to get in touch with my feminine side. She can be a pain.'

Well, okay, that was weird. 'They are pretty, though. Just, kinda...'

The smirk shifted a bit, lips pressing together and to the side in an odd little quirk, and Lily had the feeling the not-girl was trying not to laugh at her. 'Thank you, Lily, that's _very_ sweet of you.'

The not-girl made her feel really weird just being around, but Lily still found herself beaming. 'You're welcome!'

The not-girl smirked some more, shaking her head to herself very slightly. 'Do you want to go help your friend?' Lily nodded. 'All right. Hold on to your hat.'

Before she could stop herself, she said, 'I'm not wearing a hat.' She wanted to slap a hand over her mouth — she couldn't believe she'd said that! That was so stupid! It wasn't her fault though! The magicky something around the not-girl was making her silly, she couldn't help it...

At least the not-girl didn't say anything, didn't react any more than her lips twitching a little. She leaned slightly away again, so she was not quite so crazy close. And then, suddenly, the world went black. All black, totally black, darker than any night, as though everything had just popped away. Except for the not-girl, who was still standing right in front of her, and looking kinda...glowy? It was weird. She barely even had time to take it in, wonder what was happening, when the world slid back into place.

And she found herself in a room she'd been in only once before: the sitting room at the Snapes'. Barely lit from sun through too-thick curtains, too-dim lamps not making up for it, the flickery light of the tele no good at all, the place dirty and the furniture all beaten up, and just all around not a very nice place.

And Mister Snape was in his armchair, all sharp-faced and mean-looking. The way his eyes focused on them when they suddenly appeared told Lily he hadn't been drinking today. Or, yet, at least. Letting out a noise of surprise, he started pushing to his feet, but the not-girl just gave him a glance and a slippy shimmery feeling of magic slipped over her and he fell back into the chair, like something heavy had fallen on him, forcing him down. By the mix of fear and anger on his face, the magic in the air, she probably wasn't imagining that. 'Don't mind us,' the not-girl said, sounding a little amused. 'No need to get up just yet.'

'Who the hell are you?' His eyes flicked to Lily, and she knew he knew her, but he ignored her for the not-girl. Made sense.

'Who I am isn't terribly important right now. What you have done is the issue of the evening. But, where are my manners? Starting before all parties are present, how rude of me.' The not-girl glanced at the sofa. Another shimmering of magic, without a sound and in an instant, blink and you'll miss it, Severus and Missus Snape were sitting there. 'There we are.'

Lily noticed the mostly-faded bruise on Missus Snape's neck, and twitched at the quick stab of fury in her own throat.

The two were looking very confused, but Missus Snape pulled herself together first. With speed Lily did not see coming, she jumped to her feet, ran to the bookshelf, reached into a thin box there, and whipped out a long, straight stick, whirling to point it at—

And the not-girl was standing right in front of her, her fingers around Missus Snape's wrist. Well, Lily knew it was the not-girl, but she didn't look the same anymore. She was taller, taller than Missus Snape even, and she could see enough curviness through her clothes Lily knew she was older. She was still wearing black and red trousers and shirt, in the same kind of cloth, but there was gold and silver thread running through it, spelling out what Lily knew had to be words, but she couldn't read them. The feeling of magic in the air was thicker, heavier, pounding against Lily's head hard enough she was getting dizzy, she thought she could almost see it, a flickering cloud surrounding her.

'Why, thank you for retrieving that.' The not-girl's voice was slightly different, deeper and thicker, close enough to the same it wasn't too weird. Just grown up. 'How thoughtful.'

Missus Snape just stared into the not-girl's eyes, her face turning very white, and let out a thin whimper. Lily could make out her knees shaking from here.

With another glance from the not-girl, Mister Snape was suddenly lifted out of his chair, flung in a flash over against a wall, hanging pinned with little fluttery magics. His mouth was moving, his chest rising and falling, and Lily was pretty sure he was yelling something, but she couldn't hear a thing. Hand still around her wrist, arm around her shoulders, the not-girl led Missus Snape in his direction. When she was in front of him, a couple steps away, the not-girl lifted her wrist until she was pointing the stick right at Mister Snape's chest. She leaned in, whispering into Missus Snape's ear, low and thin, but it somehow hung in the air enough Lily could still hear it. 'Do it.'

Missus Snape sent the not-girl a fearful glance, her hand twitching, all but frozen.

'Do it,' the not-girl whispered again, soft and friendly and encouraging. 'This sad, disgusting excuse for a man, he would deserve whatever you could possibly think to do to him. More than. Remember how he beats you, how he beats your son. You could end it in a moment. _Kill him_.'

Missus Snape and Severus both jumped at that, and Lily could only stare at the not-girl. Not quite what she'd had in mind...

The not-girl didn't seem to notice, just kept whispering, her voice slightly heavier, slightly sharper. 'Remember how he rapes you, remember how he steals from you everything you were, until you are nothing but a weak, terrified animal cowering at his feet. Take it back. _Do it_.'

For long seconds, Missus Snape just stared at her completely terrified husband, her hand shaking so hard Lily thought she'd drop her stick, tears starting to slide down her cheeks as Lily watched. Finally Missus Snape let out a long moan, her stick falling to clatter on the floor. 'I can't. I c-can't, Y-your Holi– I'm sorry, I can't, I'm sorry...'

Maybe she was just a bad person, but...Lily thought she would do it. If it were her.

Letting out soft shushing noises, the not-girl turned Missus Snape around in her arms, wrapping her up in a hug, a hand sliding down her hair. Which was weird, Lily hadn't seen that coming. It didn't look like Missus Snape did either, by the way she froze, looking far too tense and uncomfortable. 'Hush, child, it is no shame.' She walked Missus Snape back over to the sofa, gently set her back down to sitting next to Severus. 'I hadn't expected you would be able to bring yourself to do it,' she said, one hand softly stroking Missus Snape's cheek. 'But everyone in your position should be given the chance, I feel.' She gave Missus Snape a light, quick kiss on the forehead before pulling away.

Missus Snape seemed surprised out of her crying, staring up at the not-girl like she couldn't believe that had just happened. Lily couldn't blame her.

Though, she was kinda getting the feeling Missus Snape knew what the not-girl was. The way she had gone all weak and fluttery when the not-girl had changed shape like that, how she kept staring at her, and Lily was pretty sure she'd been about to call her "Your Holiness" before her crying had cut her off. But, Lily wasn't too surprised Missus Snape knew more magic stuff than she did — at least, Lily was assuming the not-girl was magic stuff. Missus Snape had magic parents, Severus said, had gone to magic school, a long time ago. Made sense.

The not-girl wasn't done. She turned to Severus. 'How about you, Severus?'

Missus Snape jumped at that, eyes wide, stared at the not-girl for a moment before shivering and looking away.

Severus just seemed more confused than anything. 'I can't... I don't...'

Head tilting a little, the not-girl reached a hand to the small of her back, and there was a click and a weird scraping sound, and she pulled a long, double-edged knife out from under her shirt. It was black, so black it almost seemed to glow with it, light shimmering off the edges, with little lines of gold twisting around the handle, making shapes down the blade Lily thought might be words again. 'Come on. Stand up.'

For a few seconds, Severus didn't do anything, staring with huge eyes at the not-girl, his mother, his father, back and forth. Then, biting his lip, he pushed himself up a little unsteadily, stood in front of the not-girl. At a nod from her, he slowly held out his hand, and the not-girl placed the handle in his palm, gently wrapped his fingers around it. Then, with a blink of soft white light, she was suddenly the younger girl Lily had first met, and her arm was around his shoulders, leading him around toward Mister Snape. Lily noticed Mister Snape was sliding down the wall a bit, his feet meeting the floor making his knees start bending up, more in reach for a kid with a knife.

Lily knew. She didn't have to watch the whole thing. Severus wasn't going to be able to do it. She could tell by how unsteady his steps are, how loose his fingers were on the handle, how he shrunk away from Mister Snape's eyes. He wouldn't be able to do it. She could tell.

And then it made sense.

Because, see, the not-girl hadn't needed Lily here to get in. Or get the Snapes together. Or do anything. She hadn't needed Lily here at all. But the not-girl was strong, and she was smart, and she might be using magic to cheat. How else had she known right where to go to find Mister Snape, where Missus Snape and Severus were to teleport them here?

Missus Snape hadn't been able to do it. And the not-girl had said she hadn't thought she would be able to.

Severus wasn't going to be able to do it either. She could tell.

It made sense.

 _Would you like me to help you make him stop?_

This was why the not-girl had brought her with. She'd come to make sure Mister Snape stops. She hadn't thought Missus Snape or Severus would be able to do it. She needed _Lily_ to kill him. That was why she was here.

'I'll do it.'

Everyone turned to look at her at once. Severus was looking at her like he'd never seen anything like her before, Missus Snape looked like she might start crying again. Mister Snape was an odd mix of scared and angry, but that wasn't new. And the not-girl was just smiling at her. A thin, calm smile. Like this was exactly what she'd expected, and she was pleased as anything. 'Come on, then, child.'

Lily walked up to the girl and Severus, feeling oddly...calm. She meant, she was about to kill someone. Shouldn't she care about that? She was pretty sure she was supposed to. But mostly, she just...

He was a _bad man_. He was hurting Severus and Missus Snape, and he wasn't going to stop by himself. If he wasn't going to stop, then...then he had to _be_ _stopped_. The police were supposed to, but they didn't, and nobody else was doing anything. She was sure everyone knew what was going on here, she couldn't be the only one to have noticed, but _no one was doing anything_. Killing him was, well, it wasn't what she was thinking, but...

It would make him stop. That's what was important. Exactly how didn't matter. Severus and Missus Snape couldn't do it, so...she guessed she would. That was fine. But she would have thought before the idea of killing someone would have bothered her, and it really didn't. She would do it. She was about to do it. And she was okay with that. She wasn't happy about it, but she wasn't... She didn't know. There should be something, but there wasn't. It was just a thing, a thing she was about to do, and Severus and Missus Snape would be okay, she wouldn't have to worry anymore, she wouldn't have to feel so helpless and angry. She was okay with it.

She wondered if that said something about her.

Lily held out her hand, and Severus put his still holding the knife on hers. But he didn't let go. She could see his knuckles were white on the handle, she could feel him shaking just a little, and he was staring at her, the weirdest look on his face, mouth opening and closing like he wanted to talk, but couldn't figure out what to say. 'Lily, I...' He broke off, frowning down at the black...whatever the knife was made out of, and Lily almost thought he was about to cry.

'It's fine, Sev.' She was a little surprised her voice was so calm. With the way she felt all bouncy and tingly, with how her magic seemed to be boiling in that place that was sort-of-but-not-really in her chest, she kinda thought it wouldn't be. 'I'm okay with it. He needs to be stopped.'

An odd, shaky look coming over him, Lily almost thought he would hug her. But he just nodded, fingers unwrapping from around the knife, and walked over to his mother.

It was heavier than she thought it would be. Hard and smooth and heavy, but not so much it was hard to hold. A little big for her hand, maybe. Even as she had the thought, the weird girl slipped an arm around her shoulders — Lily shivered at the way her magic skipped and jumped inside of her, like it was... _happy_ — her hand coming to cover Lily's around the knife. Lily felt a flash of slippery magic, and the knife shrunk a bit, feeling almost fitted to her, perfectly welcoming her fingers. The girl directed her, slowly, smoothly, until she was standing right in front of Mister Snape, only a couple steps away.

'Take your time, sweet child,' the girl whispered in her ear. 'It is only we, here. There is no need to force yourself. The scales will balance in time, he will get what is his, even if you cannot deliver it. So be calm, and—'

The girl didn't finish the sentence. She broke off when Lily stabbed Mister Snape.

She'd aimed for his neck, because she kinda thought that would be easiest. And quickest. It didn't bother her, yeah, but it was still kinda gross. Trying not to think too much about what she was doing, she just took the knife and...pushed out. Fast. The black blade slipped into the skin of Mister Snape's neck, almost _too_ easy, like a hot knife falling through butter. And Mister Snape jerked and choked, his throat twitching around the knife in her hand. Lily could just stare for a second, Mister Snape shivering with mouth working and eyes wide, clearly hurting really bad, but that magic still there, stopping him from making any noise.

She was snapped out of it when she felt a warm wetness touch her fingers, and she jerked away without thinking, bumping into the weird girl behind her. But she didn't let go of the knife first, it came with her. And blood was pouring down Mister Snape's chest, so _much_ of it, and she could see inside the hole in his throat, and she couldn't hear anything, but she could see he was gasping, choking, strangled by his own blood, getting weaker and weaker as more and more ran out of him...

It didn't happen right away. It took a minute. But eventually Mister Snape stopped gasping, stopped twitching, and he went still, his eyes staring out unseeing. He was gone.

 _Good_. He _should_ be gone. He... Severus and Missus Snape would be okay now. She stopped him. They'd be okay.

She didn't notice she'd dropped the knife until she heard it thump against the floor.

She'd killed him. She'd actually killed him.

She didn't notice anything going on around her, she didn't know how long. She only saw Mister Snape. She couldn't stop staring at his vacant eyes, the hole she'd put in his neck, the rivers of blood all down his body. She couldn't stop staring.

She was okay with this.

She wondered if that said something about her.

* * *

Much like the first time, Lily didn't notice her coming. One second, she was alone, set up at the dinner table, scribbling away at her homework. The next second, she wasn't.

It was the stranger again. That girl who'd helped her get rid of Mister Snape. She was sitting on the chair across the table, staring at her, face oddly blank. She looked exactly the same as Lily had last seen her, the same clothes, her hair parted exactly the same, the same circle of flowers on top. Her being in the room gave her that same feeling she got last time, that feeling she couldn't say exactly what it was like. Looking too close at the sun, standing too close to a fire. It wasn't unpleasant, not really. It was just a lot.

Lily wasn't sure how to feel about seeing her again. Last time had led to her killing someone. She'd had time to think about that, and... She didn't feel bad about it. Not really. But she felt bad about not feeling bad. If that made sense. She _had_ killed someone. That was supposed to be wrong. Sure, Mister Snape had been a bad man, and in the few weeks since then, Severus had been...calmer. She wouldn't say happier, really, but less _un_ happy. But she still... She thought she _should_ feel bad about it. But she didn't. Which really made her wonder if she was bad. Only bad people are supposed to not feel bad about doing bad things. What else was she supposed to think?

And, well. She knew now. She was pretty sure she knew what the girl was. At least, Missus Snape had told her what _she_ thought the girl was. And Missus Snape was the one who knew about magic stuff, so Lily would think she would be right. Even if her idea was... Well, it was a weird idea.

The girl didn't say anything for long seconds, so Lily spoke first. 'Hello, again.'

'Hello, Lily Evans.' The girl gave her a soft smile. It seemed almost sad, but not quite. Reassuring, maybe. 'It doesn't mean you're bad. One thing many people forget when talking of the morality of an act is to consider the motivation. Nothing is done in isolation, so everything must be viewed in its proper context.'

She was going to get right into it, then. Okay. It was slightly creepy she was reading Lily's mind, but she decided to not think about that for now. Instead she thought of what the girl said, frowning to herself a little. 'But people do bad things for what they think are good reasons all the time. That doesn't make them good things.'

The girl shrugged a little. 'Perhaps not _good_ , necessarily. "Good" and "bad" are not the only options. Although, of course, you can't just take their stated motivation as gospel. Often, you will hear people say, "I had to do it," or "they deserved it," when they really _didn't_ have to, and their victim really _didn't_ deserve it. What the person doing the maybe bad thing _says_ often isn't enough, you have to look at what actually happened. Right?'

'Yeah.' That made sense. If Mister Snape hadn't really been hurting Severus and Missus Snape at all, but they just said he did, then it really, _really_ wouldn't have been okay to get rid of him. But she knew he had been. 'So Mister Snape deserved it, then?'

'Oh, yes.' The smile was gone, the girl's face turning cold and hard. Even the magic in the air was different, making Lily shiver. 'That man was broken and sick inside. He never would have changed, no matter what anyone did. If you hadn't stopped him, young Severus would have killed him eventually, in the end. When he was older, his magic closer to the surface, more powerful, more volatile. Tobias would have gone into one of his rages, and Severus would have met his rage with his own. And Tobias would not have survived it. And Severus would have been changed, he would have carried that black anger on his soul forever.'

The coldness, the slight heaviness in the air, both lifted away, and the girl was shrugging. 'I am of the opinion, personally, that there is nothing worse in this world than those who have power over others using their authority not to protect, not to nurture, but to torture, and brutalise. As far as I am concerned, such people deserve whatever misfortune befalls them, and should not be granted the honour of being mourned.'

Lily swallowed, the hard, merciless feel to the girl's voice making her a bit unsteady. Not that she thought she really disagreed. Those sorts of people _were_ terrible. She wasn't sure if they deserved to all be killed, but they were definitely bad people. 'But I don't care.' The girl raised an eyebrow at her, so she said, 'I killed him, and I don't care. Shouldn't I care?'

'Did you enjoy it?'

At the easy, calm question, Lily just frowned. Well, no, she didn't _enjoy_ it. She was relieved it was over, she guessed, but other than that. Mostly she'd just found the whole thing kinda...well, gross. There was blood all over, and she could see things in the hole she'd put in his throat she shouldn't have been able to, it just made her feel all wrong.

'There you go,' the girl said, smiling a little again. 'If you were a _bad_ person, as you put it, you would have done it for the wrong reasons, and you would have enjoyed it. You would be looking to do it again. You did not, and you are not. You are not a bad person, Lily Evans. I'm inclined to think you are quite a good person. And people generally trust my opinion on this sort of thing.'

Lily had to think about that. And not about the Mister Snape, wondering if she was a bad person reason. She thought she could...maybe just trust the girl on that. For now. If Lily started killing more people or something, she'd have to think about it again, but for now, fine. It was that last comment. It made her think of what she'd learned. And then wondering, talking with Missus Snape and Severus about it a little, why exactly the girl had come. She could just ask, since the girl was here again. 'Why did you come? Why did you help?'

The girl was silent a long moment, just staring across the table at her, face empty. Finally, after what felt like almost a minute, but not really nearly that long, she said, 'Have you figured out who I am?'

She swallowed again. This was a scary topic. Because, she _was_ pretty sure she knew, if not who, _what_ the girl was, but it was a scary thought. She leaned over to her backpack, pulled out a book, a magical book Missus Snape had given her. She set the book on the table between them.

 _Aspects of the Divine — A Brief History of Gods and Demigods in the West_

The girl smiled, just a little. 'Did Eileen decide on a guess of which one?'

Lily took in and out a slow breath, trying not to look too scared. The girl had just... Well, that meant... Apparently, Lily really _was_ talking to a bloody goddess right now, and that was such a strange thought, and a _scary_ thought, and she really didn't know how to feel about this. 'Ah. No.'

'Relax, Lily. If I'd wanted to harm you, I would have already.' Oh, well, of course. Didn't really make her feel better, but. Shaking her head to herself a little, still smiling, the girl glanced down at the book. There was another slippery feeling of magic, and the cover flipped over by itself, the thick pages quickly ruffling by. Then they stopped, the book splayed open, and the thing slid back to her.

After another long breath, trying not to freak out, Lily looked over at the displayed page. She recognised this section. At the back was a list of gods — the book usually called them "Aspects" but that's what they were — and a few of the more important demigods, just a quick list of things they'd done, only a page or two each. Lily found the title at the top of the page after a second, read it aloud. ' _Nemesis Adresteia, Aspect of Just Retribution.'_

The odd girl lifted a hand, wiggling her fingers in the air in a little wave. 'Pleased to meet you, Lily Evans.'

'I...' Lily had to swallow again, glanced down toward the book. She wasn't reading it, just looking away from the girl, the girl who was apparently a... 'Are you really?'

'Yes.' She said it so calm, so simple. As though what she was saying wasn't completely insane.

Lily had no idea what to think about this. No idea at all, not really. While her thoughts were bouncing confusingly in her head, making her feel far too dizzy for how she was just sitting here, she stumbled on something, blinked up at her. 'So...when you said your mother keeps putting those flowers on your head, you meant...'

A childishly annoyed look, almost a pout, crossed the girl's face. 'Yes, she always does do that. She managed to catch me on my way out _again_ ,' she muttered, poking at the ring of green and white on her head. 'But, if you were asking if I meant the one you call Aphrodite, yes, I did. Though, she's not truly my mother, of course.'

It took a moment for Lily to find her voice again. That was the weirdest thing she'd ever seen. A bloody _goddess_ , who had to be _thousands_ of years old...sitting there pouting. She had no idea what to think about this. 'Erm, she's not?'

The girl gave a little shrug. 'None of us have parents. Well, most of us, anyway. We are not _born_ in a sense you would recognise, but coalesce into being out of...' She trailed off, her hand waving little circles in the air. 'Well, let's just say _magic_. It's complicated. Those of us associated with less civilised, less intellectual aspects of humanity, we tend to be a bit unreasoning the first few decades, even centuries, after we come into being. So, to make sure they don't make too much of a mess of things, one or more of our number will keep an eye on the new arrival, until they're more stable. Usually, we remain close, even millennia later. For me, that was the one you know as Aphrodite. And she's quite the meddler, she never leaves me alone.'

'Okay.' She didn't think she really got all that, but okay. This was all just so... _weird_. She didn't... 'This is really happening, right?' She just got a look at that, so she shrugged, trying not to shrink into her chair too much. 'I mean, you're really... I'm not just imagining all this? You're not just messing with me?'

Still just calmly smiling at her, the girl said, 'No, I'm not just messing with you. No, you're not just imagining this. Yes, I really am divine.' She gave another light shrug. 'Although your impression of what that means is probably incorrect, that isn't really important right now. I am very old and I am very powerful. Let's just leave it at that, for the moment. And I know it may be difficult for you to believe, but that's alright. I don't expect you to simply take me at my word, and I'm not about to take too much effort to convince you. You will understand in time.'

Well. Okay. That was a bit odd. But she guessed... She guessed it didn't really matter. It didn't matter so much what she was. She'd helped with Mister Snape, and she wasn't going to hurt her so...she could mostly just not worry about that, right now. There was one thing she was still wondering about, though. 'But... Okay, but, why did you help Severus?'

She gave Lily a look. She wasn't sure exactly what kind of look, but definitely a _look_ , staring intently at her, it was a bit unnerving. 'I didn't help Severus.'

'Erm...'

'I helped _you_ , Lily Evans. Not Severus. He and his mother had already surrendered. They had given up, broken before that monster of a man. They no longer called to me. But you, _you_...' Mostly the girl's voice was flat, calm, but here there was actually something on it. Lily couldn't say what it was, but something there made her voice seem more...alive? 'I didn't hear them, but I heard _you_. Your spirit crying out to me. It was _you_ who felt furious and helpless, _you_ who were filled with that righteous rage, _you_ who wanted more than anything in that moment to be able to do _something_ , _anything_.' She shook her head. 'I didn't come to help him. I came to help you.'

Lily had to think about that a moment. There was a point to it, she guessed. Missus Snape and Severus had always seemed so...defeated. They never seemed to get angry about it. And there she had been, so _angry_ and _frustrated_ and _scared_ , she hadn't even been able to control her magic, she'd had to go somewhere alone to try to calm down. And she'd been there, pacing and fuming and hitting and burning things, when a goddess of "just retribution", whatever that meant, had apparently heard her, and came to help her fix it.

She wasn't sure if she should feel thankful, that she'd come to help when Lily didn't even know she existed, or a bit creeped out, that she didn't even need to be anywhere near her to hear Lily's thoughts.

'What now?' The question came out without Lily really meaning to ask it. It was a good question though, so she just sat and waited.

She didn't have to wait, though, the girl answered straight away. 'Nothing. You please me, Lily Evans. There are things I can teach you, things I can show you. Magics, I'm sure much of that you will find very interesting. Continue to please me, and I would be happy to help you learn whatever you wish.'

There was that urge to swallow again. Not at anything she'd said, exactly, just... 'What happens if I _stop_ pleasing you?'

She shrugged. 'I leave, and never return. Unlike many of my kind, I am not easy to offend. Do not threaten me or mine, do not abuse the knowledge or power I give you, and you have nothing to fear from me.'

Lily was still confused. She was still scared. But...this didn't sound too bad. Just, don't make the _bloody goddess_ angry and she could learn cool magic stuff! Sounded great, to her. Maybe not tell her parents though? There was that whole Jesus thing, that might be awkward. Although, come to think of it, she'd never been sure what to think about Jesus stuff, but now that she knew some gods _definitely_ existed, or maybe definitely something like them, she might have to rethink that. But yeah, sure. Magic lessons from a _goddess_. She could do that.

There was one problem, though. 'What do I call you?' The young-looking not-girl blinked across the table at her. 'Well, it's just, saying _Nemesis Adresteia_ every time would be a mouthful.'

A smile on her lips again, she said, 'I don't care. I've had many names. Just make something up.'

Lily slumped against the table, letting out what she knew was a very childish moan. 'But I'm _terrible_ at naming things!'

The goddess just smiled at her.

* * *

Lily stepped out of the Gryffindor Common Room. Not into the main body of the castle, not up to the dorms, but out onto a narrow balcony, hugged curling around the tower. She glanced around quick, just to be sure nobody was around. It was late, she'd waited for everyone to go to bed, but you never know. 'Millie?'

'I am here, Lily Evans.'

She forced herself not to jump, to not show any surprise at the appearance of the voice, turned to find Millie sitting easily on the balustrade. She hadn't been there a second ago, of course — Millie had made something of a game of never appearing when and where Lily was looking, trying to get a reaction out of her, she guessed. Lily had been badly startled the first few times, but she was used to it by now. 'So you can get through the wards.' Lily had been wondering about that. Talking about different sorts of wards, Millie had said there were a very small number that could keep even her kind out; she'd also said Hogwarts had very impressive wards. She'd never said one way or the other if the Hogwarts wards would be a problem for her, but she had casually talked about meeting up while Lily was at school, so she hadn't thought they would be.

Millie gave her a thin, crooked smile, her head tilting a bit. Maybe it was her imagination, but Lily thought Millie's expressions had been slowly growing more...human, she supposed, the more time she spent with her. She assumed Millie must have just recently spent some time away from mortals, forgetting how to act like one in the meantime, but she'd never asked. There were a lot of things she just didn't ask about, never seemed quite her place. 'The wards around Hogwarts are mostly intent-based. Even should they be sensitive enough to detect my presence, and powerful enough to repel me, since I conceptualise my intentions as benevolent I would pass through unimpeded in any case. Though, it doesn't hurt the wards have been neglected since last I've been here.' She nodded over her shoulder, eyes tipping up to the sky. 'Take a look.'

Lily didn't hesitated for a second, walking up to the balustrade right next to Millie. She didn't look up at the sky immediately, watching Millie instead. Now that she knew to look, it could be a bit unnerving sometimes just how still Millie could be. Not that that was surprising, when she thought about it — it wasn't like Millie needed to breathe. Of course, it also somewhat bothered her that Millie kept gradually aging herself up as Lily grew older, now looking maybe thirteen or so, the barest hint of incipient curves visible through the same shimmering shirt and trousers she always wore, but that was another thing Lily just didn't ask about.

Shaking her short distraction off, Lily turned up to the sky. With the smallest force of effort, she pushed things in her head around, bringing a certain part up to the front. Millie had found out almost right away Lily had a latent magesight ability, strong enough it probably would have activated later in her life all on its own — apparently, the ability was not uncommon in mages, just the specific circumstances required to activate it were far more rare. Millie, being a bloody goddess and all, had been able to switch it on for her pretty easily. It was just a matter of concentration, like refocusing her eyes, to bring the swirling rainbow glow of the wards into sight, extending in a big dome over the grounds.

After a moment of staring, she said, 'What am I looking for?' She didn't see anything wrong herself. They hadn't had much opportunity to study wards, sure, but if there were something wrong with them she would expect...holes, or something. She didn't know. They looked perfectly bright and solid to her.

In that soft, gentle tone Lily thought of as her teacher voice, Millie said, 'Fix your eyes on a single point. Find some feature you can focus on. And wait.'

Though she wasn't entirely sure where this was going, not that she often did, Lily did as commanded, finding a spot where a bit of yellow ran into a bit of purple. It was shifting back and forth a little, yes, but the sharp, jagged shape was distinctive enough she could keep it in sight pretty easily. And then... It was hard to explain, exactly. There was a shiver, the patterns on the surface vibrating, as though disturbed by a rock thrown into a pond. When the ripples passed, she couldn't help a surprised blink: the shape the yellow and purple spot made was different. Very slightly different, but it was noticeable. 'What _is_ that?'

'Interference. Someone hasn't been maintaining the wards properly, hasn't been rebalancing them to account for the slow shifts in the ambient magic of the valley over the centuries. They haven't collapsed entirely, but they are significantly weaker than I remember them. Far less impressive than I've led you to believe, I'm afraid, certainly that.

'Now, you had a reason to call me, so suddenly on your first night truly in the magical world. I would figure you would be up in your room with your new classmates, talking about...' Lily turned in time to catch Millie's hand turning in a lazy gesture. '...whatever it is little mortal girls talk about.'

Lily didn't think there would be much point in saying she wasn't entirely sure what _little mortal girls talk about_ herself. She had the feeling she'd always been a bit strange, but she was starting to think spending so much time with Millie from so young was changing her. Not in a bad way, of course. But people were changed by their experiences, and she'd been learning and doing all kinds of interesting new things, and for all that she was millennia older than her Millie was, by some irony, the only person in her life who didn't treat her like a child. So, she'd expect it was very possible she wouldn't be like other children by this point. And besides, 'I know you know already.'

And Millie just smiled at her. The fact that Millie knew everything she was thinking at all times was something they usually didn't directly speak of. Lily wondered if Millie thought that was funny. 'I suppose I do. But it's far more polite to let you say it.'

True, she guessed. Whatever. 'What's a Prophet?'

'You know about the Conclave of Akkad?'

Lily blinked at that. The question in response to her question was smooth and easy, for all the world sounding as though she'd actually answered, and not just changed the subject. But Lily was used to Millie doing things like this, so she went with it. 'A little bit. I don't know many details.' Millie just raised an expectant eyebrow, so Lily thought for a moment, trying to remember what she'd read in one of the many magical books Millie had smuggled into her house. 'After the Partition of Crete, a long time ago. The Divine had decided for some reason, not sure why, that they were doing more harm to the world than good. So at Akkad, which is a city, they met in the physical world in numbers never seen before or since, and made an agreement to no longer act here directly. They could guide, they could empower, but they could do nothing directly.'

Millie nodded. 'An adequate summary. The law is somewhat more complex than simply not intervening in the physical world. There are some contextual exemptions — if certain interests of ours are threatened, we can act. We may still take mortal lovers and beget mortal children, though there are rules limiting our involvement in such situations. It is all a bit tedious, but the agreement we made at the Conclave is the only law we truly observe. Breaking the terms could draw the enmity of others of our kind, a risky proposition.

'The aid we may give mortals is far more limited than once it was. Certain blessings have been banned, most forms of direct intervention on behalf of our favourites. However, we can still teach. We can appear to whomever we like, and tell them whatever we like. We will often come to someone who appeals to us in one way or another, and teach them to further reflect ourselves, for one purpose or another. For convenience, such people are called Prophets.'

Well, that was more or less what Lily had expected. She bit her lip, glancing between the goddess at her side, the glimmering of the wards in the night sky. She remembered Millie, her rather irreverent nickname for Nemesis Adresteia, first appearing to her, years ago now. She had come to help her get rid of Sev's abusive father. She hadn't come to help Sev, she'd said, but _Lily_ — it was Lily who had called to her. Nemesis Adresteia, an Aspect of the Divine the mages associated with revolt against those who use their authority unjustly, retribution against those who have perpetrated crimes against the helpless, justice for those who have broken their oaths.

Sev and his mother, they had been the victims in the situation. The ones treated unjustly, the helpless crimes had been perpetrated upon, those harmed by the breaking of an oath. But Millie hadn't come to them. She'd come to Lily. And she'd helped her punish him. Not them. Her.

She remembered just a couple hours ago, with that silly Hat on her head, all eyes in the glittering Great Hall upon her. Its voice sharp in her mind, _It has been some time since I've had the pleasure of Sorting a Prophet, you see_.

It took a long time for Lily to ask the question. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. Finally, she found her voice, but it still came out softer than she would like, a low whisper. 'Am I your Prophet? Is that why you're teaching me?'

She glanced over at Millie to see her smiling. Expressions always looked slightly wrong on Millie. She couldn't even say exactly how, it just felt off. As though she weren't human, but something _else_ assuming the form of one, simulating humanity with somewhat less than perfect accuracy. An impression which she knew was entirely correct. 'In the end, Lily Evans, that is up to you. I cannot force you to serve me. Even if it were not a violation of our agreement at the Conclave, I would not — doing such a thing would be just as much a violation of who _I_ am. And it is not why I teach you. I do that because you please me, and empowering you gives you greater and broader opportunity to further please me.

'However, should you decide one day that that _is_ what you want, well...' Millie shrugged. 'I would be glad to call you mine. But that is not a conversation for today. You are young, yet, to be dedicating yourself to anything. We may just speak of it again, when you are a woman grown. Until then, let it rest.'

Lily thought she could maybe live with that. For now. Maybe.

Though, honestly, she didn't think she'd be opposed to the idea. She meant, the idea of, er, dedicating herself to Mille, she thought that was how she was supposed to say it, the _idea_ was sort of scary. What Millie was was scary, it was such an enormous...concept, she guessed, that this girl was a _bloody goddess_. It'd been years, and she still wasn't used to it, it was _weird_. She tried to avoid thinking about it most of the time, it was just too...big. The _idea_ of dedicating herself to Millie, or any other of her kind, it was just a scary thought. A changing-her-whole-life-irreversibly sort of scary. But when it came down to it...

Well, she'd thought it to herself just a moment ago, hadn't she? Revolt against those who use their authority unjustly. Retribution against those who perpetrate crimes against the helpless. Justice for those who have broken their oaths.

She was young, still, yes, it would be foolish to decide before she was old enough to really know what she was talking about. But those all sounded like good things, to her. She didn't think she'd have a problem with...doing that, for the rest of her life. Doing Prophet things. That didn't sound terrible.

The thought was still scary as hell, though.

* * *

 _And there is...probably a little less than half of the prologue to this fic. The fic itself mostly deals with the Girl-Who-Lived, this is just an establishing bit._

 _"Millie" is loosely based on the minor Greek goddess Adresteia — the daughter of Ares and Aphrodite associated with revolt, not any of the several other figures with the epithet. The concept of the fic itself was inspired by a Percy Jackson crossover I read. This is **not** , however, a crossover itself. For one thing, I've never read those books, and I'm playing **very** fast and loose with mythology in general. To put it briefly, the various gods are cultural interpretations of the Aspects — different cultures worship the same Aspect by a variety of names with a variety of expressions, but the Aspect itself is unchanged, all and none of them. Myths give a framework to talk about them in a way that's easy to understand, but don't perfectly encapsulate them._

 _By the admission that this was inspired by Percy Jackson might imply, yes, "Millie" is the GWL's...not-father, I suppose, magic is weird. As you might expect, that ends up fucking with the canon plot quite a bit. I'll be abandoning it almost entirely in fifth year, in fact._

 _I do like this story, but who knows if I'll ever get to it. And yes, I realise I say that about almost everything._

 _On to the next._


	10. Peace is a Lie

**_Peace is a Lie_**

* * *

 ** _Chains are Broken_**

* * *

In the kitchens deep in the Dathomiri Imperial Academy, Veli stared at the nearly-prepared meal moodily bubbling on the pan before her. To be more precise, not _at_ the meal, some thick stew she personally couldn't stomach, but _into_ it, _through_ it. She watched the interplay of energies, dancing back and forth. Electricity imbuing metal with heat, which was truly just kinetic motion at a fundamental scale, low-frequency light thrown out by the dance, the light captured after only a very short distance by the pan, which grew hot and radiated light out again in turn, travelling into the meal she was preparing for a particularly insufferable acolyte, the absorbed light making these atoms dance in turn. Many triads of atoms danced so intensely they broke their weak bonds tying them to other triads, rising in curling whiffs of steam, radiating further heat into the air around her. She could see it all, she could _feel_ it all, that energy, that motion.

And through it, the Force, that energy behind all energies, that single source of motion that moved all things. Little peeks of it, hardly visible, tiny sparks of light and warmth in cold darkness.

For it was everywhere. She'd read a few treatises by a couple Lords claiming the Force was imbued in and only existed through the chosen, or whatever language they chose to use to declare their own specialness, and she had to wonder if they had truly been as sensitive, as powerful as they'd claimed. She would have to be willfully blind not to see it. Living things seemed to glow with it, even the tiniest of insects, hot packets of motion and passion, but it was everywhere else as well. In the water, in the dirt, in the stone and metal of the Academy, even in the air itself. It was _everywhere_ , being, moving, acting, openly displaying its secrets for anyone patient enough to observe.

And it wasn't like Veli ever had much better to do with her thoughts.

She reached out for the interplay of power and motion and light before her. Not with her hands, which were occupied with slowly stirring the stomach-churning slop, but with something that was part of her, and yet bigger than her. She'd discovered it when she'd been very young, young enough she could hardly remember it not being there. It was much like her people's natural talents — the prevailing theory was that the specialized telepathy common in her species worked through the Force, though no one was sure how — but it felt distinct enough she'd always known the difference. It felt slightly different, in a way she couldn't put words to, but recognizable. Seemingly in a different spot in her head, she had to shift her thoughts slightly aside to focus on one over the other. But always there, like extra eyes, extra hands, always there.

This sort of heating method was, of course, extremely inefficient, much of the heat being radiated into the air, wasted. It had simply been maintained so long because certain culinary snobs felt the results were superior — and in the case of the Sith specifically, she thought they might appreciate the symbolism of people serving them. But, she could cheat a little. Reaching out with soft, encouraging fingers, Veli took a portion of the light radiating out into the air, absorbed the energy contained within, and turned it back into the stew instead. She spread it out, exciting atoms all through the mixture, molecules jittering and dancing in response. She worked slowly, gently, applying her stolen energy as evenly as possible, balancing out that convected directly from the burner, augmenting her stirring with her cheating.

All told, she felt the disgusting slop was fully cooked in roughly half the span it was supposed to take.

Good. She could use the time.

Switching to bleeding most of the heat off into the air, Veli reached for her pockets. Not with her physical hands, but with fingers of thought, turning heat into motion. Soon she had her battered old datapad out in front of her, below counter height and blocked from the others' sight with her body, had it switched on a moment later. Then she slipped a much nicer datacard out of her sleeve, the one she'd managed to swipe from that same insufferable acolyte while he'd been making his usual dinner demands, stamped with the Sith Academy Archives insignia. The card floated over into the open port at the side of her little computer, gingerly slid home with intangible fingers. With a few taps, Veli set the datapad to copy the entire contents, then perused the file and directory titles while she waited. She shook her head to herself at the elementary topics he was apparently studying — not surprising, she guessed, this particular acolyte never had anything too interesting. She took it all anyway, just in case there was something useful buried in here. She wasn't allowed into the Archives herself, so might as well add whatever she could get to her little personal library.

She soon had her datapad shut down, the card again vanished up her sleeve, and just barely in time — the others working her table were just finishing. With sharp, practiced motions, she dished out the proper portion of creamed grains of some kind, hard to keep track of alien foodstuffs, poured the thick, chunky stew evenly over the stuff. And somehow managed to hold back her own revulsion. Corellian cuisine, honestly. She'd snuck some ryshcate off some Corellian merchant once, when she'd been young, and that wasn't bad, but all of their stews and sausages always made her queasy.

It was a metabolic thing, she knew. Her people's homeworld didn't have large land mammals, like the nerfs or similar creatures usually used in these dishes, and at some point the genes to produce the enzymes necessary to digest such things had simply vanished in the vast majority of her species. There were aquatic fauna, which they'd eaten regularly — she could only assume that was why she'd especially liked seafood, the very few opportunities she'd had to try any — but those required different enzymes to digest, so the trait had been selected for. She'd read something about all that at some point.

That she knew _why_ didn't mean she didn't still find this shit disgusting to even just look at. With long practice, though, it wasn't too hard to shove her queasiness down, order her body to behave.

A few pinches of greens, and she was done. She only had to wait a couple seconds for the others to be ready, and they headed off as a group for the acolyte dining hall, Veli carefully hiding herself deep in the center. It was almost surreal, how quickly her surroundings changed. One moment, the air hot and thick from preparing food, surfaces nicked and stained, walls, floor, and ceiling dull brownish stone, rough and unpolished, everything illuminated with white lights bright enough to be painful. Then, right on the other side of a double door, the air was comfortably cool and crisp, much moodier lighting gleaming off smooth black stone, glimmering reds and silvers shaped into pleasant, embracing curves. The difference in the occupants was obvious as well. In the first faces dirty and hands calloused, bent backs and hunched shoulders covered by cheap, threadbare cloth. In the second, Sith acolytes with their casually proud self-possession, exuding power and arrogance with every smooth motion, dressed mostly in silks or equally fine synthweave, gleaming and glittering as brightly as any of the decorations.

Before any of them could feel it, Veli squashed the hot flare of envious hatred even as it rose. It wouldn't do for them to pay any more attention to her than they already did.

And the attention they paid her was already more than she was comfortable with. As her cadre reached the table, setting plates before the proper acolytes with the appropriate servile bowing and muttering, Veli could feel their eyes on her. That she knew _why_ didn't make her any less annoyed. Even if she did nothing to encourage it, these acolytes would see her blue-black hair, her inhumanly deep red skin, and have only one thought in their heads.

In some respects, that was the lot of all Zeltrons, she supposed. She didn't think they were even necessarily wrong. She'd never been to Zeltros — she'd never been off Dathomir, actually. Her mother's ancestors had been living under the Empire for centuries, even millennia, and she honestly hadn't a clue who her father was, so she had neither firsthand nor indirect experience in how free Zeltrons were supposed to act. But from what she'd read, her people were almost pathologically hedonistic, in quite nearly every sense of the word. Their culture was famous for it across the galaxy, enough Zeltrosian space had been a favorite vacation destination of the liberally-inclined since quite nearly the formation of the Republic. Their interests were more varied than was often depicted — apparently the entire sector had long had a model public school system, since certain things could only be properly appreciated by a well-educated mind — but the common impression non-Zeltrons had of her people being highly indulgent and exceptionally licentious pleasure-seekers wasn't entirely incorrect.

Their natural emotional telepathy and uniquely voluntary pheromone system really didn't help that impression. To a Zeltron who knew what they were doing, there was no such thing as incompatible sexualities or species — they could make themselves attractive to whatever genders or species they wished, just by prodding at their minds and their endocrine systems a bit. Apparently, she'd read, it even worked on some non-sapient animals, but that was something she preferred to believe didn't happen.

It was best to play along, to a degree. There were lines she refused to cross, a privilege her mother hadn't been allowed, but there was no harm in playing into their expectations a little. Her clothes were intentionally one size too small, tunic altered to be somewhat briefer than the others' — about her back and stomach, mostly, she needed the sleeves for her habitual stealing. She'd always met the acolytes' leers with smiles, made her voice lighter and smoother than it naturally was, met the inevitable flirting with easy bantering.

Even now, as she bent to place the plate of disgusting slop in front of that especially insufferable acolyte she'd been stuck with tonight, there he was staring at her, his too-blocky human face narrowed in an almost comically obvious leer, a transparently thin suggestion on his voice. And despite the shivering disgust slithering up her spine, she just smiled at him, said something automatic, she wasn't sure exactly what, something about how she couldn't possibly, she had work to do, blah blah.

Even as she spoke, her hand passing him as it retreated from setting down the plate, she reached out with a tendril of power, slipped the datacard out of her sleeve. With the slightest, gentlest of touches, she slid it back into place on his belt. She carefully watched his face as she did — not quite meeting his eyes, as appropriate — saw absolutely no sign he'd felt her use of the Force. She could camouflage herself rather well, she'd found, and small pushes were difficult for even the best to notice, but she always watched, just in case. Good.

She jumped as, even as she started pulling away, a large hand clenched vice-like about her wrist, holding her in place. "Oh, but," the acolyte was saying, his voice low and thick, "I'm afraid I really must insist." One of the others at the table snickered, she wasn't sure which.

Her skin writhing at the acolyte's hand on her, her stomach churning at the pitying looks her fellows wore, she allowed herself to contemplate, just for a moment, killing the insufferable little shit. Right here, in the middle of the dining hall. Right now. She was certain she could do it. Based on what she knew of his study material, what she could tell of his power by the fiery black tendrils wrapping about him, she was confident she could squish this pathetic excuse for an acolyte like a bug under her heel. She doubted he could stop her. He'd be dead before he could blink. The others around would surely retaliate, but she'd be able to kill this one, at least, before they could.

And her mother's voice was echoing in her head, preserved soft and drifting through the years. Her hand combing slow through Veli's hair, whispered quiet, secret in her ear. " _No one can know, Veli,"_ she'd said, she'd said over and over, until it was a mantra always at the back of her head, inalterable law. " _They can't know what you can do. The Sith don't accept slaves, Veli, they'll just kill us. Please, please, baby, be careful, keep it secret, please..."_

Veli closed her eyes, took a long breath, just for a second. Then she gave the others a short, reassuring smile, and turned back to the table. "Well, unless you're willing to deal with Darth Endris when she finds out I haven't been doing my work..."

The acolyte — his name was Kalten, she knew, Orsa Kalten — gave her a dark, confident smirk, eyes sharp and vicious. "I can handle Endris."

Veli managed not to laugh at that, but only just. She was aware a lot of people underestimated Endris, since she mostly concerned herself with the day-to-day functioning of the Academy, eschewed the obvious displays of power most Sith were so prone to. But Veli was smart enough to learn absolutely everything she could about the person who technically owned her, no matter how rarely she actually saw her, though even her best efforts had revealed very little. With what little she'd learned, she still knew crossing Endris was very foolish. She was getting on in years, an age only the most dangerous Sith ever lived to, and Veli had learned by poking around that she'd spent an extraordinarily long time with Imperial Intelligence. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't much about her on record.

Very little, yes, but enough. Even slaves knew to tiptoe around Inquisitors.

Kalten was either a complete idiot, or had a dangerously inflated sense of his own abilities. Of course, comparing the way he spoke and acted against his study materials, she'd already known that, but it was still pathetic.

"Well..." Veli hesitated, injecting her voice with just the right amount of eager hesitation, shifting one foot against the other and cocking her head a bit. Just a touch of fear, as well, couldn't forget to look at least _slightly_ afraid. It would be odd for a supposedly helpless slave to not have even the slightest bit of fear for practically any Sith, after all. "If you're sure."

"I'm _very_ sure, pet." A flash of incandescent rage temporarily consumed Veli's thoughts, but she quickly controlled it, kept it tucked inside, held from radiating outward any sense of her feelings. She thought her left eye might have twitched a little, but it didn't look like any of them caught it. Kalten pulled her down toward the seat next to him; cursing a steady stream in her head, she let him. And he kept her close against him, arm loosely wrapped about her hips. She wanted to toss him away, she wanted to fill his steaming corpse with laughing lightning, she wanted to set his smirking face on fire. Instead she held down her gorge, forced herself to relax, let herself lean into him a bit as she might if she _didn't_ hate this man's guts.

And did her absolute best to keep old memories from surfacing.

One of the acolytes at the other side of the table — Mieryn was his surname, she couldn't remember his first — giving her an easy smirk, said, "What's a pretty thing like you doing in the kitchens anyway?" It was quite obvious what he was implying. And he was far from the first person to ask.

Veli let out a high hum, tilting her head a bit to the side, letting the idiots' eyes run along the curve of her neck as she considered how to answer that. Make up a story, or tell the truth? Hmm. There were risks inherent in both. If she lied, it was _possible_ , however unlikely, one of them might figure out about it later, which could cause problems. Problems likely worse than any ideas the truth might give them. Fine, then. "I did grow up in a brothel, yeah." The obvious implication being her mother had been a whore, but they'd probably guessed that already — most Zeltrons in the Empire were. As a Zeltron slave who _wasn't_ bound to some sort of sexual service, she was actually unusual. "But, _well_..." She let her head tilt back around, bringing a playful smirk to her lips. "My old master decided I was _far_ too much for most people to handle. So I was sold to the Academy instead."

Which was entirely true, if misleading. When she'd been...twelve? She wasn't entirely sure how old she was now, so she couldn't say for sure, but she knew her mother had died just a couple months beforehand, and that had been nine years ago, so twelve seemed about right. Anyway, the person whose property Veli had been born as — a snivelling, disgusting _speck_ of a man, she didn't even _think_ his name to herself if she could help it — had informed her she'd been getting old enough to switch careers, so to speak. She'd made it _quite_ clear she would kill any clients he sent to her before letting them put so much as a finger on her. Using every bit of the very rough control she'd had over the Force at the time, she'd compelled the vile man to have her sent to the Academy instead. It'd been a near thing, she'd almost lost control more than once, but within the week she'd been sold to Endris, had been cleaning and cooking for these insufferable little pricks ever since.

And stealing as much in the way of study materials as she could, teaching herself in secret. That _was_ why she'd picked the Academy to sell herself off to, after all.

It seemed the acolytes were buying her semi-truthful story in any case. All laughing it off, saying things about how, yes, she did seem like a feisty little thing, didn't she. And the topic was changed easily enough, the men now joking and bragging like the idiots they were. She let herself fall into the conversation, into the usual dance of flirtation and innuendo that developed seemingly every time she talked to anyone without some framing context, let herself relax a little bit.

But not entirely. She did not like the way they were looking at her. It was impossible to relax entirely.

Looking back on it later, she would honestly find it a little funny how thoroughly... _bored_ she was. Hemmed in on all sides by five Sith acolytes — a prospect which would have most slaves terrified out of their minds — five arrogant, powerful men paying her far too much attention. With what she would later know they must have been planning from the beginning, with what would happen in the next days, she perhaps should have sensed _something_ was amiss. She perhaps should have been taking it more seriously.

But she wasn't. She was just completely, desperately, sickeningly _bored_. These simple-minded, pathetic excuses for Sith kept blabbing at her, that stupid shit men such as they always spouted. She played the subtly flirtatious role that was expected of her — couldn't be _too_ forward, she was a slave, after all — so unthinkingly she might as well have been switched out for a pre-programmed droid. Her thoughts were more focused on her to-do list for that night than what she was doing at the moment, waiting impatiently for them to release her. The longer they kept her, the later she'd be up doing her regular nightly duties, the less time she'd have for reading and practice. And she was just bored.

Perhaps if she hadn't already long ago written off all these particular acolytes as insignificant insects, she might have paid more attention. And, to be fair to herself, she wasn't even wrong about that. She'd later learn none of them would ever amount to anything. Even the ones who wouldn't be dead in the very near future.

Though, even if she _had_ seen this coming, she would have thought they would at least entice her out of the dining hall before trying to rape her.

She had barely been paying attention to what was going on, flirting on autopilot, when she suddenly found Kalten's mouth above her ear. She repressed the automatic impulse to jump, or incinerate him where he sat, forced herself to remain still. "You _are_ a pretty thing, you know." His voice was slightly slurred with alcohol, breath thick enough with sausage and liquor to turn her stomach. And, before she even had a second to respond in a way appropriate or not, she felt fingers sliding against her pants, intentionally too tight against her skin, running far further up her thigh than she was comfortable with.

The boredom boiled away in an instant, Veli almost painfully alert, life and power running through her veins like lightning. Eyes flicking around at the other men, taking in their stances, their faces, the set of their gazes, she started cursing in her head. She'd miscalculated, assumed this was like any other night, acolytes being stupid arrogant asses. It was obvious this wasn't an ordinary night. This wasn't the normal level of stupid arrogant assishness.

She was suddenly quite convinced they were going to have a problem.

Keeping any trace of her sudden wariness off her voice, she shot Kalten a coy smile, carefully watching him out of the corner of her eye. "You know, I do hear that. I think I've heard it from you already, in fact."

"It's such a shame," he said, airy and casual, as though she hadn't said anything at all. "Hiding away back in the kitchens. Such a shame." The arm wrapped behind her tightened around her shoulders, the fingers on her thigh slowly sliding upward, tipping around to the inside.

Breath turning hot in her throat, Veli took another glance around the room. At their table, no, their faces seemed almost eager, in one case simply a detached sort of interest, all of them projecting glee and lust into the air about them so thick it was cloying. Further out, no different. Most everyone hadn't noticed anything was happening yet, those who had showing nothing but either indifference or a tinge of vicarious excitement. They knew what was about to happen, and none were inclined to stop it. _She_ knew what was about to happen, and...

Her breath turned thicker and hotter, her head buzzing with the incessant noise of a million hoarflies, Part of her already wasn't here, was back in the city a decade ago. Holed up in her room, converted from what had been her mother's closet. Trying not to hear what was going on on the other side of the thin door, usually it wasn't bad, sounded like everyone was having fun if anything, but _this_ time it sounded bad, _this_ time her mother was screaming, like whoever it was was hurting her, but Mommy had said to always stay in here, to be silent and still no matter what happened, to never let anyone know she was in here, it was very important she be a good girl, so she sat in the back corner, she hugged her pillow around her head, and she waited for it to stop, she _begged_ for it to stop—

Too busy trying to not exist to notice the hint of smoke building in the air, too thin for the sensors to pick it up, but there, she'd smell it on her sheets later, after—

Veli clenched her fists to stop her fingers from shaking, with a supreme effort of will kept the shadow of her memories from her smile, from her voice. "My, my, are you suggesting what I _think_ you're suggesting, milord?"

Chuckles crossed the table, sickening leers turning her nauseous, but she kept it off her face, _they can't know, please, baby, keep it a secret_ — "And if I am?" He sounded so sure of himself, so annoyingly arrogant, a child playing at being a Sith Lord. It would almost be amusing.

Veli swallowed the fire back, desperately grasping at her self control as her guts writhed with disgust, her chest ached with fury, her mother alternately screamed and whispered in her ear. "Well, then, I suppose you would have to have a talk with Darth Endris." A cloud of confusion settled over the table, in any other situation Veli might have rolled her eyes. "I belong to Darth Endris, you see. I'm afraid I can't speak for myself. You would have to ask her."

Another one of the men, Mieryn, he gave her a sharp, cold sort of leer. "If I we were asking permission, yeah, you'd be right about that."

Another one, "We're not asking permission, see."

No. She wouldn't have it. She'd promised herself, nearly a decade ago, after her mother had wasted away sick and tired and broken, she'd promised herself she wouldn't allow it, she would die first. "Stealing from a Darth?" She noticed a hint of icy steel had slipped into her own voice, but she couldn't help it at this point. And she'd ceased caring. "I know it's not my position to say, but that seems unwise."

"You're assuming she gives a rotten rancor's toenail what happens to you."

She wasn't, really. Raping her would be, legally speaking, stealing from Endris — what kind of Darth lets people get away with stealing from them with no consequences? If Endris found out about it, she'd have to do _something_ , to prove such violations of her domain would not be tolerated; she had once been an Inquisitor, so she _would_ find out. And besides, it wasn't an _assumption_ in any case. She'd been somewhat surprised, when she'd gotten herself sold to the Academy, to find Endris was a shockingly considerate master. Veli wouldn't say she was kind, not exactly — she wasn't certain Sith Lords were familiar with the concept — but she wasn't cruel to her slaves. She made sure they were fed, she made sure their illnesses or injuries were properly attended to, she made sure they were not too brutally treated by the Academy's students. She made sure they were as comfortable as slaves anywhere in the Empire could possibly be. Veli had no idea why Endris went to such effort, but it was quite clear she put more value on her slaves than most people did. If these men thought Endris would just _ignore_ them having their way with her, they were blind fucking fools.

Also? Rancors didn't have toenails, they had huge bloody claws. For some reason, that extra bit of idiocy just annoyed her. They were on _Dathomir_ , for fuck's sake, they should know that.

She forced her rage down one more time, teeth gritting and fists clenched on the table. "Are you quite certain you want to do this?"

She didn't wait long enough for a response. She didn't need to — it was written all over their faces.

Fuck. This was going to be messy. She somehow doubted she could make it all the way to Endris's apartments without using the Force.

But she had to try. She took a last breath, tension radiating out from her shoulders and across her limbs. She turned into Kalten and dipped, her head slipping under his armpit, then pushed off the bench with both hands, and one of the legs of the table with both feet. Kalten's arm had lost purchase with her turn, she'd slipped away from his other hand, and her push brought her face-first toward the ground. It was easy enough to tuck her head in, bring her hands up, take her momentum into a roll over and down her back. A quick push through the Force against the ground, hopefully light enough for no one to feel it, and she was on her feet. Barely a second having passed, she set off running toward where Endris should be, the men behind her only now jumping to their feet and—

Veli saw it coming before it arrived, descending as invisible fingers of power and will, and — _they can't know, please, baby, keep it a secret_ — she barely stopped herself from neutralizing it. The sudden jerk dragging a yelp out of Veli's throat, she was plucked off her feet, whipped backward through the air. The top of her hips came hard against the table, flipping her back to slam against the surface, hard enough it should have hurt, but she couldn't feel it, her head was too full—

Power was power; energy was energy. It was in everything, the great tapestry that contained all of existence, variations on a single theme, different expressions of a single form—

Mom's voice ringing in her ears, she was being hurt and there was _nothing_ she could do about it, and she _hated_ this place, _she hated them all_ —

After, her mother bruised and sluggish, a cauterized cut across her forehead, airing out the smoke in the former closet, putting out the tiny little fires, holding Veli and stroking her hair, just an inch from crying, she could feel it, " _No one can know, Veli,"_ she'd said, she'd said over and over, " _They can't know what you can do. The Sith don't accept slaves, Veli, they'll just kill us. Please, please, baby, be careful, keep it secret, please—"_

She'd sworn, she'd promised herself, she would not become her mother. Sitting in the room, listening to her labored breathing when she'd fallen ill, diligently wiping the sweat from her brow and changing her sheets and bringing her broth and juice, all she'd been able to stomach in the end. Veli had promised herself, this would _not_ be her. She loved her mother, she did, and she was not ashamed to be her daughter, no matter how even the other slaves might whisper and snigger, but she would not. She would _not_ permit herself to be used the way her mother had, she would not become her, broken and tired and sick, she would _not_. She would die first, she would kill first, there was nothing she would not do, she would not, she would not, she would _not—_

As Kalten forced her back on the table, hips trapped by his, wrists held against the surface at either side of her head, the argument grew to an agonizing cacophony behind her eyes. Blood hot, throat tight, ears ringing not with the laughter and jeers of the apprentices, but the duelling voices in her head. Her mother's, _please, baby, be careful, keep it secret, please_. Her own, _I will not I will not I will not I will NOT—_

There was no doubt which voice would win. Even as she felt Kalten's fingers fumbling at her waist, she tasted smoke on the air, just the barest hint.

She did love her mother, but she loved herself more.

Power was power; energy was energy. Variations on a single theme, expressions of a single form.

Her fury was a wild thing, red and hot and alive and unceasing. It filled her, so much she shook with the hard, thick energy of it. Emotional energy, but that was but another form, she could use that.

She took her own anger, the burning and the stinging that made her chest hurt and her fingers shake, grasped it in mental fingers smooth as the finest shimmersilk, unyielding as durasteel. And she turned it, shifted, reformed it.

Kalten screamed, the piercing keen painful in its suddenness, hands leaping off of her, his weight pulling away. He screamed, but not for long.

Veli pushed herself to her feet in time to see the body fall, lines of black char crisscrossing pale skin in a web mirroring the veins beneath, wisps of steam gently curling in the deathly still air. She was momentarily distracted by the sight of the fresh corpse, staring with a curious blankness at the half-cooked flesh that until recently had been a Sith apprentice.

She'd never killed anyone before. She didn't feel guilty, of course, not over this little shit. It just felt...odd, knowing he was dead, and she had done it.

But she didn't have time to puzzle over this development right now. She was still in the dining hall, and she was still surrounded by Kalten's friends and peers.

A glance up showed them staring at her. Some with shock, some of with an academic sort of curiosity, more than a few with building rage. She felt the tension on the air, an instant from snapping, and knew she would have to be extremely lucky to make it out of here alive.

At least she didn't have to worry about anyone raping her now. She was a slave, and she'd just murdered a Sith. They'd almost certainly just kill her.

She stood, waiting, for several long heartbeats, for someone to make a move.

* * *

The first thing Veli thought when she woke was that someone was apparently torturing her.

The second thing she thought was that meant she was still alive.

At the moment, she wasn't capable of thinking any further than that. She was rather busy screaming.

The traditional Sith ability that took the form of lightning was, despite what it looked like and what it was usually called, not truly lightning. It was instead the will to cause someone suffering made manifest, hatred given form. It did not truly act as lightning when assaulting a living body, did not burn like electricity, not really. It severed a person's conscious control of their body, leaving them partially dissociated, like a puppet with the strings cut. It sought out pain receptors with perfect precision, slamming down every button a person had at once. It was neither hot nor cold, blunt nor sharp, but all of them at once, stabbing and smashing and freezing and burning, one sensation that was every agony that had ever existed, all rolled up into one. Thundering through a person so overwhelmingly they could feel nothing else, could think nothing else but to beg for it to stop.

Keep them under it long enough, and they would lose the ability to think even that.

She didn't know how long she was kept under. Everything was white and black and blue and red, her vision dancing with blinding shadows and indistinct light, everything pain. She was certain she was screaming, she was certain she was moving, but she couldn't hear her own voice, she couldn't feel her surroundings. The pain was all there was, boundless and impenetrable.

Until, suddenly, it stopped. The veil of agony was lifted, and Veli was left shuddering, aftershocks running through her like boiling water in her veins. She felt hot and slow and tired, but she forced her eyes open, blinked in an effort to force them to focus. The room was dark, she couldn't see well. There were lights from displays, of what she couldn't tell, illuminating the crosshatching of supports in the ceiling, but she could see hardly anything else. She could feel, through the pounding left behind by the assault that had drawn her to consciousness she could feel...

She was on a table, she decided. A cold, hard table, made of some kind of metal. The cold part was more of an annoyance than the hard part, honestly — she seemed to be rather naked, and the metal against her lightning-heated flesh made her shiver, the lingering pain flaring anew with each slight movement. She was held to the surface with manacles, also metal, about her wrists and ankles. There was odd tension on her back, a pain at her wrists, and she decided after a moment the table was tilted, friction and the restraints all that was keeping her from sliding to the floor.

That was all she needed to know. She knew where she was.

'Ah, good morning, slave. Generous of you to finally grace us with your presence.'

Veli turned to her side, toward the voice, even while knowing what she would find. There, standing over her, the angle of the table putting his head about a foot above her own, was Lord Iniksal, his red skin almost purple in the gloomy darkness, the fleshy crests at chin and brow throwing deep shadows over his face. He was an Inquisitor, one of the few attached to the Academy. Veli had read his specific area of expertise was interrogation — she was certain that really meant torture.

The thoughts raced through her brain with their usual energy, but with none of their focus. She let them pass, blinking sluggishly up at the Sith. When she finally found her voice, it came scratchy and weak, shaking so hard she could barely understand herself. 'You'll forgive me for being slow to rise, milord. Last I recall, a twelve-person dinner table was flying straight for my head.'

'Hmm, quite.' Iniksal's head tilted a bit to the side, his eyes trailing along her form. She was well aware his thoughts weren't at all sexual — she could feel he was slightly amused, mostly intrigued — but the gesture still had her shuddering. Finally his examination was finished, his eyes tipped up to the ceiling, letting out a slight sigh. 'I have one and only one question for you, slave. If you cooperate, your death will be quick and painless. If you remain intransigent, it will be quite the opposite. It makes no difference to me, in the end.' His eyes flicked down to hers, pointed teeth glinting as his lips curled. 'People always tell me what I want to know, you see. One way or the other.'

Somehow, Veli really didn't doubt that. Iniksal was powerful, she could sense that easily enough, and he seemed so...unconcerned. As though this were any ordinary day, nothing unusual were happening. Which she would admit was somewhat unnerving, but she brushed it off easily enough — much of her daily life was unnerving, when it came down to it. 'And what question is that, milord?'

'Who taught you?'

Veli blinked. 'I'm afraid I don't understand. Taught me what?'

The Sith didn't seem at all amused, but he clarified anyway. 'We know you are not a plant. We have gone over your provenance, and it checks out — your birth was registered legitimately, you were sold to Endris legitimately.' She couldn't help a hot flash of rage at the use of the word _provenance_ , about calling her _sale_ legitimate, but she suffocated it instantly. Iniksal didn't react, so it was possible he hadn't even noticed. 'Which means you were taught in the ways of the Sith _here_. Under our very noses.

'I want you to tell me, slave, who among our number took it upon himself to sully our noble traditions by sharing them with vermin. You will tell me who taught you to use abilities far beyond your station. You will tell me, and you will be given a merciful death. Which is more than your presumption and your crimes deserve.'

And Veli was angry again. Her "crimes" — defending herself from rape at the hands of some arrogant twat who was nowhere near as powerful as he believed himself to be. Her "presumption" — using the abilities she was born with, but that Iniksal and those like him thought she ought not have, due to the accident of her birth.

They believed themselves special, the Sith. They were the chosen few, a class above all other beings in the galaxy, selected for greatness by the Force itself. It was a gift from the universe itself, a gift only the best sort of people deserved. They believed this, but then they saw someone like Veli existed. A kitchen slave, born of a bed slave, but carrying in her heart the same gift they were so proud of, as powerful as any of them.

And this offended them, oh how she knew it offended them. She hadn't needed her mother warning her to know this. A couple years after being bought by the Academy, one of the other slaves had become pregnant, had a son. This in itself was not unusual. The slaves of the Academy did have relationships with each other, not to mention the occasional assault — though that was uncommon, most acolytes smart enough to not risk the wrath of Darth Endris. After a year or so, it was becoming clear this child was Force-sensitive. They eventually had blood taken, to remove all doubt.

They had killed the child, tearing him to pieces before his mother's eyes, in the slave hall where they could all see. Then they'd taken the mother away. She'd returned weeks later. She'd never said what had happened to her in those weeks, but she'd never been the same since.

A Sith was no slave; a slave could never be Sith.

And so they would hate her, she knew they would. She must certainly die, for her _presumption_. But whoever taught her, they must also be punished. Because she couldn't have learned on her own, of course not. She was a slave, vermin, she couldn't possibly have the intelligence or ability.

Despite the pain she was still in, despite how she knew it would only provoke the Inquisitor who had her at his mercy, she was entirely incapable of stopping it.

Veli burst into black laughter.

She was rewarded with another episode of overwhelming, absolute agony.

Rage and hatred and will and power were storming within her, tearing at her body and her mind. It hurt, of course it hurt, but the pain didn't truly hold her attention. A thought was occurring to her, not yet fully realised, like the sky lightening in advance of the approaching dawn.

Power was power; energy was energy. Variations on a single theme, expressions of a single form.

In time, the pain retreated, and Veli was left gasping, shaking against unforgiving durasteel. She clenched her jaw shut, narrowed her eyes, willing herself to hold on to her epiphany. And Iniksal spoke, voice still easy and casual. 'I'm afraid I fail to see the humor in the situation.'

'You would.' Veli's throat shook, her lungs ached, every inch of her protesting, but still she smiled, turning to meet Iniksal's eyes, finding their black depths near sparking with quiet rage. 'But it is funny. You're looking right at it, but you still don't see what it is. You Sith are so blind and fucking arrogant sometimes, makes me laugh.'

She only had an instant of warning. Iniksal's eyes narrowed, just slightly, a single finger raising, barely visible at the corner of her vision, a halo of light blooming to life, a sharp actinic blue, her sense of the focusing energy black and thick and furious.

She had only an instant, but when the lightning came for her, will to cause suffering made manifest through the Force, she was ready. It touched her, it tried to penetrate her, but before the world could fall away into agony, she grabbed it. She took the power of the assault into herself, convinced it to obey her will, not by any cajoling or persuasion, but by the sheer knowledge that it _would_ , it _would_ obey her, there was no question in the matter, no doubt, the sun rising in the morning, a dropped object coming back to the ground. She took it into herself, tendrils of fury snapping at ephemeral fingers, but she ignored the sparks of pain flickering in her mind, and forced her will upon the energy she had stolen. She put her own fury into it, twisted it to her own purposes, made it hot and eager and _ready_.

When she felt it was ready, before Iniksal could respond, she released it again.

And it was not her screams that split the air.

Veli ignored Iniksal as he quickly died, ignored the sick scent of burning flesh, and turned to her restraints. Hard metal, thick, definitely not something she could break with muscle alone. But she had far more than muscle at her command. She reached into herself, reached _through_ herself, and—

She gasped as the electricity stabbed into her wrists and ankles, coursing all through her body with a single hard throb. A brief jolt, just enough to break her concentration. Clever — apparently the table had been designed to detect a prisoner reaching for the Force, and prevent them from managing any real escape attempt. That would work for most people, but most people, she'd noticed reading her way through her stolen library, didn't realise that most important truth.

Power was power, and energy was energy.

Veli reached for the Force again, until she felt that niggling at the back of her mind, that itch at the back of her neck. When the shock came again, she was ready for this too. She accepted the power into herself, twisted the electrical energy into kinetic, directed it where she needed it with an almost reflexive force of will.

With a keening sound that made her teeth shiver in her skull, the manacles were torn away, and she was free.

Veli slid down the angled surface of the table, skin stinging where the metal pulled it. Her feet met the floor after a second, and her burning, shivering legs folded under her the next, pitching her chest-first against the floor, hands too slow and weak to catch her. Veli laid there for a long moment, stealing shuddering gasps half-muffled by the tile against her face.

Okay. _Ow_.

Once she'd properly gathered herself again, she closed her eyes, focused herself inward. Searched for the power hidden deep within herself, drew it forth, let it meet her frustration with her own weakness, her fear one of the Sith would find her before she could escape. She turned it upon herself, flowing through her blood, dancing across muscle and skin, finding the black, rotten residue left by the lightning, boiling it away bit by bit.

After what had to be at least a couple minutes, Veli felt she was healed well enough to get moving. She crawled toward Iniksal's gently smoking remains, stripped off his cloak. It smelled rather awful, a stomach-turning mix of urine and burned meat, but she didn't have a whole lot of options available at the moment. She wrapped herself up in the heavy cloth, pulled the hood over her head, and stepped out into the hall.

And now she had to get all the way from the interrogation rooms in the basement to one of the gates at the edge of the grounds. Which would involve slipping past at least three security checkpoints and who knew how many Sith.

There was no way this was ending well.

* * *

Veli was starting to run out of options.

She'd managed to slip out of the detention hall, past the Inquisition offices surrounding it. She'd made it all the way to the ground floor, before the alarms had gone off. Someone must have found Iniksal, she'd known they would, but she'd been hoping to have at least made it onto the grounds by then.

For good reason: the instant the alarm had been raised, durasteel barriers had slammed down before all the doors, the windows. Soldiers and Sith patrolled the halls, checking papers, plundering minds, taking those without sufficient proof of their right to be here into custody, beating those who resisted. They were sweeping the building, floor by floor, room by room, person by person. Efficient, meticulous, ruthless.

She'd managed to avoid them so far, but she knew she couldn't forever. All the exits were sealed, guards posted at every lift and stairwell, there was nowhere to hide. She could feel Sith through the Force, grasping fingers, reaching, searching. She could make herself small, unnoticeable, but only on the unwary, those not already suspicious of her. If she got too close...

There was no way. They would find her eventually. There was nothing she could do.

She was walking down a back hallway, only used by maintenance and slaves, looking for something, _anything_. Well, not walking, exactly — _limping_ was a better word, steps uneven and unsteady, hand against the wall for balance. She was still weak, her body aching and shivering, but she couldn't stop to heal herself more thoroughly. It could take too long, they might feel it. She had to keep going.

She knew she was almost certainly about to die, of course. But she was going to make the fuckers work for it. She wasn't going to lay down and die like a good little slave, oh no, if they wanted her life they'd have to—

Veli froze. She wasn't alone in the hallway. Some distance ahead, leaning against a door frame, someone was watching her, Veli hadn't seen them approach. She couldn't make the figure out, loose hooded robes of black and red hiding all distinguishing figures. Save what they were holding anyway — a cane, gleaming silverish metal and sparkling crimson gemstones, casually gripped in both hands, just about at the figure's waist.

Veli didn't have to see her face to have a pretty good idea of who that was. Knowing there was likely no chance she'd survive, knowing she'd be dying in agony in a few minutes, she reached inside of herself anyway, drew as much power as would obey her forth to—

"There's no need for that, Veli. I'm not here to fight you."

More than the words, it was the tone that surprised her, enough the power she'd gathered disintegrated into nothing. Not warm, exactly, but casual, calm. Almost friendly, for a Sith. Veli risked a brief blindness to the Force, reached out for _Darth fucking Endris's_ mind with her own. It was hard to tell, Endris did always seem very cold and empty to her senses, bit she did catch a hint of...

Relief? That couldn't be right...

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but..." Veli hesitated a moment, running the tip of her tongue along her lip. "Ah, why are you here?"

Endris let out a low grunt. "Come, follow me." She pushed herself from the wall, then turned and started down the hall, slow shuffling steps broken with the harsh ticking of her cane.

Veli stared after her, glanced over her shoulder along the empty hall the opposite direction. Then, sighing to herself, she turned to follow the elderly Dark Lady.

It wasn't like things could get any worse, after all.

A few minutes of walking in tense silence — tense on her end, anyway, Endris seemed perfectly calm — they were stepping into a room Veli had never been in before. A break room, it looked like, probably for the maintenance staff. "Sit down," Endris said, gesturing to an armchair with her free hand.

Veli slowly drifted toward the chair, paying more attention to Endris. She was headed for what looked like a miniature kitchen area against one wall. When she started filling a chromed pot with water from the tap, Veli finally figured out what she was doing. "Ah, Your Grace, I should—"

She cut off when Endris turned to look at her over her shoulder, sharp yellow eyes bright under her hood. "Believe it or not, child, I am capable of fixing a pot of tea. And besides, I'm not the one who was tortured today." She nodded toward the chair. "Sit down."

Well, Veli certainly wasn't about to make her say it a third time.

In a few moments, Veli spending most of it trying not to moan at the relief coursing through aching muscles, Endris shuffled her way toward the chair opposite Veli. A floating tray laden with pot and cups and those tiny little sandwiches settled itself on the low table between them, and Endris slowly sank into her own chair, groaning so softly Veli wasn't certain she'd even heard it. She set her cane to lean against an arm rest, her hood falling back of its own accord to reveal red skin darkened and wrinkled and spotted with age, a narrow scar running where a near-human's left eyebrow would be. Then she reached for the cup closer to her and took a slow sip, eyes resolutely fixed on Veli.

And Veli just sat there, staring back. She had absolutely no idea what she should be doing with herself. She hadn't exactly ever _taken tea with a Dark Lady of the Sith_ before, and this wasn't anything like a normal situation either. She still wasn't entirely sure Endris wasn't going to just kill her the second she glanced away.

After some moments, Endris's head tilted slightly, eyes flicking down toward the tray for just an instant before meeting hers again. Well. All right, then.

She'd made it though five of the little sandwiches — vegetables and cheese, she could actually stomach it — before Endris finally spoke. "You're having an interesting couple of days, aren't you, child."

Veli froze, simply staring at Endris for long seconds. Eventually she managed to unstick her jaw, swallowed her sixth sandwich before opening her mouth. "Ah, I suppose that's one way to put it, Your Grace."

The Sith's black lips twitched with a mostly-repressed smile, only for an instant before she was blank again. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean." Endris set down her tea, leaned forward in her chair, propped against her cane. "I examined Kalten's remains, you see. I only briefly checked Iniksal, but it is obvious he was killed the same way. I've never before seen something of the like."

Veli was only slightly surprised. She hadn't read of any Sith doing anything similar, but she would hardly claim she knew everything. That an Inquisitor of Endris's experience would never have seen anything like it _was_ unexpected. But, well, "'The Force is the prime motivator, the determiner of all possibilities. There is nothing that is impossible, for the power of the Force is without limit.'"

This time, there was nothing faint about the amusement she felt from Endris. "Yes, you did do the thing properly, didn't you." Endris drew up her cup of tea again, relaxed back into her chair. "It is quite impressive. The manner of Kalten's death is indicative on its own, but to manage the same against a Lord Inquisitor?" Endris took a slow sip from her tea, shook her head. "I knew you were talented, of course. But all the same, I am impressed."

Despite how exhausted she was, the words still sent a thrill of adrenaline through her veins, a chill sinking through her smelly borrowed robes. "You knew I was...talented."

Endris gave her a flat, blank sort of glare. "Honestly, child, you think I hadn't noticed? That vile little bottom-feeder who sold you to me, I forget what his name was, his mind clearly had not been his own. I knew in seconds you had him under your unpracticed control. And not with the natural gifts of your kind either. It was very good work for an amateur, of course, but I am not an amateur."

It took a moment for Veli to refocus herself. She'd thought she'd hidden her abilities, that no one in the building knew, she was anonymous, safe. But Endris had known, she'd known from the very beginning. A last pained swallow, and she managed, "I would never mistake you for an amateur, Your Grace."

"I wouldn't expect so. Unlike most of our acolytes these days, you do not strike me as a fool." Endris paused a moment, sipping at her tea, eyes on Veli hard and sharp and all too intense, she had to bury the impulse to fidget. "That was the whole purpose, was it not? To do the thing correctly."

"I'm sorry?"

"You got yourself sold to the Academy on purpose, _with_ purpose." Endris reached into the folds of her robes, pulled something from a pocket to set gently on the table between them. When Veli recognised her cheap, battered datapad she couldn't help a wince. "You have been swiping study materials from our acolytes. And you've been teaching yourself, in the few leisure hours you have."

There was really no point in denying it. Endris had her datapad, she'd probably gone through her things, found the cards she had hidden way. She had everything. So, between calm sips of her own tea, voice as casual as she could make it, Veli drawled, "My leisure _minutes_ really — I don't exactly get a lot of off time."

Endris's mind again glowing with amusement, her black lips pulled into the slightest of smiles. "Yes, well. You can relax, Veli. I'm not going to punish you."

For a second, Veli could only stare at the elderly Sith, blinking. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I find that hard to believe."

The smile twitched, shifting into something more a smirk. "We claim to reward merit, we Sith. The Emperor wills it, that we may find and refine the greatest talent, no matter its source. Many of my peers have lost that message, have lost all memory of where they came from, what we, ultimately, are. I am not so arrogant as to not know my own history."

Endris leaned forward in her chair, fingers lightening about her cane. "You know what you are, Veli. You may have stolen knowledge straight from our hands, you may have killed a lord and an acolyte, but in doing so you have proven your talent, clear to see for all who have not blinded themselves with empty pride. Proud I may be, but I am not blind. The Emperor wills that the greatest of our talent be allowed to flourish, and I give you my word, child, you will have that opportunity. I will not allow it to be otherwise."

She saw immediately what Endris was saying. She was saying Veli would be allowed...well, allowed to become a Sith. It wouldn't be handed to her, of course, nobody was owed anything in the Empire. She'd probably be admitted to the Academy, afforded full honours when she graduated.

 _When_ she graduated, of course. From what Veli had observed of the general level of talent among acolytes, she had no doubt she'd make it.

She would make it, _if_ she had the opportunity. Which she would not, she _could_ not. She was a slave, and the Academies did not recruit slaves. More importantly, she had just murdered two Sith. Sith being murdered was not entirely unusual, and there were situations it wasn't even illegal. Self-defense was one of those situations, and would definitely cover Kalten, and even Iniksal.

But it didn't apply for her. Only Sith. The punishment for a slave killing a Sith was death, no exceptions. There was no way, even for a Darth, to get around—

Veli froze, straightened in her seat somewhat. Her back protested, the muscles spasming from abuse and exhaustion, but she ignored it, kept the pain from her face. And she stared at Endris, for a silent moment. The words tasting almost absurd on her tongue, she whispered, "How long have I been free?"

"About twelve hours." Lips curling with a smirk, Endris broke for an annoyingly drawn-out sip of her tea. "Though, I did have the papers backdated to a little under three years ago. I'm very good at what I do, it'll hold up. I even set up a bank account complete with three years worth of backpay. You're clean.

"It's not so surprising it wasn't reflected on the administrative database until now. You know how bureaucracy can be, these things get lost sometimes. It's not unreasonable young Kalten and Lord Iniksal assumed you were a slave — paid citizens are a minority of the staff. An unfortunate mistake, that's all. These things happen. It wasn't even a total loss: the Empire got a promising young acolyte out of the debacle. Don't you agree?"

Veli could only blankly stare back at Endris, too disoriented by the universe shifting around her to find her voice.

* * *

 _I really don't know why Veli amuses me so much._

 _As some nerds might have guessed, this fic is based off of the Inquisitor story from Star Wars: The Old Republic. That Hero of Tython guy will have a significant role too. The timeline has been shifted around a bit, plus some of my trademark fucking with worldbuilding. And the plot goes gradually off the rails, losing it entirely by the third act. But this is me, nobody should be surprised by this._

 _This one should be...comparatively short? Well, small number of **chapters** , but the chapters will be long. This one is still missing a scene or two, even. It'll just be, you know, snapshots over the next few years. Of Veli being a complete badass, and ruining the plot and even a couple prophecies because fuck the police._

 _Right, one more tonight. Uh, this morning, I guess._


	11. Echoes

**_Echoes_**

* * *

 _The deck shook._

 _Not with the tiny, almost imperceptible shiver of powerful machinery at work, but with the bone wrenching shudder of a chemical explosion. The air was filled with noise and fire, the pressure enough she almost choked, the heat against her skin, even crouched behind a security console, intense enough she winced. But it lasted only an instant, the tightly-controlled destruction flaring out as quickly as it'd begun._

 _As soon as she'd recovered from the unforgiving force of the shape charges, Bastila sprung up and rolled over the sparking console, dropping to her feet and running for the neatly obliterated blast doors. She wasn't at all surprised to see the other Jedi all seconds ahead of her, Master Kavar already disappearing through the smoke-obscured doorway. One by one they slipped through, the soft glow of lightsabers a variety of colors enduring a second after their forms had disappeared. Bastila dove into the smoke last, the remaining strike troopers folding in behind her._

 _She stepped over the shattered remnants of the door, blinded by the yet thick smoke, but her feet falling true. The cloud parted after only a few steps, revealing the Jedi gathered, the bridge just beyond. Rimmed with tall windows of transparisteel, divided into sharp triangles here and there with beams of solid metal, so clear and so clean it might as well not exist, the stars beyond, the burnt orange of the dead planet to the right, so vivid she could taste them. To the left, above, all around, dozens of lumbering capital ships, great wedges of gleaming silver and white, flickering with the flash of turbolasers and missiles against shields, the flare of energy so constant it almost seemed solid. The front line, so to speak, was some distance off, the Interdictor they'd infiltrated screened by an escort of intimidating strength, only a handful of Republic fighters penetrated this far, rushing Sith guns with suicidal bravery._

 _Some distance away, yes, almost hard to see, but Bastila could still feel them. Minds focused on the here-and-now with razor keenness, blood hot with adrenaline, so thick with tension it was painful, joints aching and eyes stinging with sweat. Not a single mind, that would be distracting enough, but thousands of them. Packs of them, hundreds and hundreds each, collected into the tight mass indicating greater capital ships, the smaller gunships and smaller yet fighters buzzing between them, so quick and so many she felt them not as single points of light but a diffuse cloud, sensation blurring into a seamless whole. The terror at near misses, pilots scrambling as potshots flared against their shields, exultation as a shot struck home, an enemy reduced to plasma, far outliving the terror and agony as lives winked out. By the hundreds, a tempest of death, of pain, of fear, of ecstasy, so many and so much it was hard to keep it all straight. Hard to keep it all outside, so powerful it forced itself upon her, couldn't be denied._

 _It was so much, she couldn't help feeling it, it was distracting. But she couldn't let herself be distracted, not longer than that second she'd just lost. Even a second was enough to get her killed._

 _Somewhat to her surprise, the bridge crew, the familiar uniforms looking slightly strange in silvers and blacks, were still at their stations, sunk into the floor on either side of the walkway she and the other Jedi now stood on, still going about their business, muttering light on the air as rustling leaves, hands against consoles a constant shiver of movement. Not perfectly at ease, no — a few snuck cautious looks at them, not quite fearful, but perhaps anxious, a low anxiety that many eased with a simple glance forward, toward the other end of the walkway, the two figures standing there._

 _One, Bastila knew from the insignia pinned over his left breast, was the captain of this particular Interdictor. (She knew she'd been told it at one point, but she'd since forgotten his name.) He was half turned toward them, eyes set in an oddly youthful face narrowed with...annoyance? Something less than fear, in any case. After a tense moment, the gathered Jedi waiting for some sign to move, the captain glanced at the figure next to him, a clear question in his bearing._

 _This one was not wearing the off-color Republic uniforms the traitor navy had adapted. From behind, the figure was entirely obscured by a heavy cloak in black and deep red, only a pair of shining combat boots peeking out from under the hem. But that was more than enough, Bastila knew who this was. She'd be able to tell with her eyes closed. Power filled the room, power so thick it was as a charge on the air, like the fiercest of Dantooine summer storms. So thick her skin tingled, so thick she could taste it. Power intense yet calm, solid as ice and rimmed with blackness, ferocious yet tame. Death lying in wait, restrained with iron will._

 _Yet, despite herself, Bastila was surprised. She'd expected Darth Revan — former Jedi and hero of the Republic, current Dark Lord of the Sith — would be taller. The top of her head barely reached her captain's chin, and he wasn't a tall man, either. But Bastila shook the thought off, dragging herself back to the moment. Even a second was enough to get her killed._

 _"You'd better get behind the ray shields, Captain." She spoke with an obvious educated Coreworld accent, cool and refined, an alto so clear and smooth a person couldn't help being instinctively drawn to it. The voice of a scholar, the voice of a leader, the voice of a Jedi. With a touch of dark humor, she added, "I'm afraid our guests intend to make a mess."_

 _A smirk twitched at the captain's lips. "Of course, milord." After a bow so abbreviated it was more a nod, the man stepped away, down a few steps among the consoles. A push of a single button, and impenetrable ray shields snapped into existence with an actinic crackle, the depressions to both sides of the walkway locked away with shimmering blue and white. The captain shot the gathered strike team a last glance before putting his back on them, turning to his crew._

 _And Bastila could feel it, the sense obvious in the air. They weren't afraid. Not a one of them were afraid, not of her and the Jedi, not of the soldiers at their backs. Not of the battle raging just bare kilometers away. Focused, yes, nervous, yes, but afraid? Not even a little. Honestly, she wasn't surprised. They had Revan._ The _Revan. They had every reason to believe they'd be making it out of this in one piece._

 _Bastila suppressed the cold shiver working down her spine as well as she could._

 _Lightsabers loosely gripped in his hands, deactivated for the moment, Kavar finally spoke. She wondered if that was what he'd been waiting for, for Revan to protect her men, what that said about Kavar, what that said about Revan. Perfectly calmly, as though they weren't confronting a Dark Lord, Kavar said, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to surrender."_

 _"I don't suppose you would. Save me the trouble." Of killing you, she meant. She didn't seem even the slightest bit concerned, everything about her perfectly confident, that hint of humor still in her voice._

 _"You're outnumbered, you're cornered. You can't win, Lesami." Bastila blinked at Kavar's use of Revan's birth name — she hadn't heard it spoken aloud in years._

 _"Good point. It's not like I've ever been outnumbered and cornered before."_

 _She shivered again. In part, it was Revan's voice, the way she said it, too calm, too confident, too light and sarcastic. In part, it was the truth in what she said. This was_ Revan _. If numbers were all it took, she'd have been defeated long ago._

 _Not for the first time, Bastila had to wonder if this assault weren't horribly misguided._

 _"You know we have no choice, you know what we must do." With the slightest flick, Kavar's twin blades came to life with the familiar cry of barely-contained plasma, his robes and his close-cropped hair awash in blue. The rest of the Jedi followed his lead, Bastila bringing her own blade hovering across her face in a guard. She could feel the fight coming upon them, hard and tense in the air, and she swallowed down the instinctive dread, focused on the here-and-now. "I am sorry, Lesami."_

 _"We both have our regrets, Kavar. But, you're wrong."_

 _Without a twitch, with hardly an instant's warning, a pulse of deadly power washed out from Revan in an inexorable wave. Bastila cringed away, reached without thought for the Force, struck out against the incoming blackness with an intangible blade. It broke around her, quickly dissolving into nothing._

 _The air broke with a staccato series of sharp snaps. Bastila glanced behind her, toward the sound of weight slumping toward the floor, and jerked away, failing to hold in a gasp of shock. All the remaining troopers and one of the Jedi, a Bith named Tak'ak Bastila had never met before, had fallen, dead. Their heads had been jerked around, all the way around, shards of bone splitting skin, blood slowly pooling on polished gray metal. They were dead,_ just like that _, in an_ instant _—_

There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no—

 _Voice still smooth and terrifyingly calm, filling the room, Revan said, "There is_ always _a choice." And she moved._

 _Kavar darted forward to meet her, so quick they were both blurs, but Revan ducked under his blades, her cloak whirling about her, and she was behind him, thrusting both hands forward to nearly meet his back. Kavar was taken from his feet, rocketing away toward the far bulkhead with deadly speed, and Revan was already moving, appearing among them in the blink of an eye. A clench of a fist and Koran's head imploded with a sickening_ crunch _, blood and brain streaming through the air, verdant light was descending for Revan's neck but was met with violet, sprung from Revan's right hand, a bloody blade appearing in the other, Yurishtal was disemboweled before he could pull away. Anis and Bastila were falling upon him, blue and yellow lightsabers inches away when the tang of ozone suddenly filled the air, Bastila barely caught a bolt of purple-blue lightning against her blade, deflecting it into the ceiling, but still her skin tingled with power, her stomach turned at the waves of darkness washing over her, the weight of it enough she was pushed backward, boots sliding against the deck with a high squeak, Anis had caught hers with her bare hand, flesh burning and fur singeing, but she held on, face twisted into a snarl, even as Revan stepped toward her, the purple blade moving in to—_

 _And suddenly Kavar was there, the death blow turned aside with violence enough Revan was unbalanced, the lightning fading away, grasping for the red lightsaber she'd kept floating at her side. And Jedi Master and Sith Lord descended into a flickering storm of motion, skipping back and forth, blades moving so quickly they painted the air with solid swirls of blue and red and violet, green and yellow joining the display as Anis and Davon moved in, trying to circle to Revan's back, but she darted away, spinning around, kept the Jedi to one side, outmaneuvering them with casual ease, the Knights reduced to an occasional swipe past the Master's side, all but useless._

 _Bastila didn't join them, standing back. Instead she took a slow, deep breath, sank far into herself, and reached outward._

 _Ever since she'd been the greenest initiate, back in the earliest days of her training at the Temple on Coruscant, Bastila had had a gift for perceiving and influencing the minds of other beings. She hadn't even needed to be taught, it was just... It was intuitive to her. She couldn't explain it, had never been able to, no matter how many times fascinated instructors and masters had asked. She would know what people were feeling, sometimes even their explicit thoughts, without having to try. (She had the feeling she'd always done that, since she'd been a small child. Might have had something to do with why her parents had surrendered her to the Jedi in the first place.) She could get people to do simple things — answer her questions, hand her things, minor compulsions that only required a few seconds' influence — simply by wanting them to happen. It could be difficult to avoid doing it sometimes, she had to be mindful, constantly aware of what she was doing just to stop herself. The greater compulsions weren't quite so natural, but they'd always come easily to her as well. It had never been difficult for her, any of it._

 _Fortunate, really — it was very possible her development in other areas had lagged behind a bit. Her own special talent was generally enough for most people to overlook mild weaknesses elsewhere._

 _Starting a few years ago, though, it had started to get...odd. She'd noticed it the first time during a practice duel between two fellow padawans. She'd been able to feel their... Oh, she never could decide on the word for it. Their feelings, but not just their feelings, their movements, but not just their movements. She'd been able to feel it, everything they were doing, not just the placement of each limb, each breath and each twitch, but their intentions in doing so. And not just the two of them individually, but how their senses of themselves and their opponent fluctuated moment to moment, the back and forth of the duel forming an almost tactile presence. She'd been able to see the balance of their duel before her, as though their performance, the balance of advantage within it, were a physical thing she could touch or taste._

 _A couple weeks later, she'd realized she could put her finger on the scales. She could prop one combatant up, or sabotage them. Make them quicker or slow them, slip an extra bit of grace into their movements or set them to stumble. She could sharpen their vision or blur it, turn their thoughts quick and focused or slow and distracted. Any contest performed in her presence was decided before it began: she could choose the winner, and that was that._

 _The fight before her now was..._ more _, different than any she'd ever felt. Mostly, it was Kavar and Revan who made it so. Every Jedi had a slightly different presence in the Force, distinct enough it was more identifiable than anything physical. Kavar didn't feel entirely like himself, descended into a deep trance, sunk far into intuition, power flowing through him in an unceasing wellspring of light, nearly overwhelming. Revan's presence was just as immediate, just as monolithic, but focused where Kavar was detached, mind and power narrowed to a razor edge. Before the dueling giants, the two knights were hardly perceptible, lost in the background of suffocating light and blazing shadow._

 _Normally, in a fight, she would be able to follow the movements, she could see it all, highlighted with supernatural clarity. Even whole battles, hundreds of ships carrying thousands of beings, all of it arrayed before her. But this, this she couldn't follow. They were just too fast, sabers clashing and repositioning too quickly for her to keep up, moving, the angles between the combatants shifting, the Force swirling about them, into and through them, doing something she couldn't even say, advantage slipping from one to the other before she could properly read it._

 _But she didn't have to be able to read it. She leaned on them, not so much putting her finger on the scales as slamming her hand down as hard as she could, power moving through her so thick and so quickly her muscles twitched, her blood burned. It hurt, rather more than she'd expected — physical bodies could only channel so much power at once, after all, and she'd had little reason to push that boundary in the past — but she didn't let herself waver, but pushed, pushed,_ pushed _—_

 _She had only the barest of warnings. If she hadn't been so deeply fallen into the Force, she likely wouldn't have felt it coming at all. A sudden flare of alarm, her entire body giving a hard thrum of imminent danger, Bastila leaned, stumbled backward. Her eyes focused on the here-and-now just in time to see a purple lightsaber sail through where her head had been an instant ago._

 _Despite herself, she froze, trapped under the gaze of the Dark Lord. Her hood had fallen back at some point during the fight, but Bastila couldn't see her face — she still wore her famous Mandalorian mask, gleaming_ beskar _colored red and black, the paint chipped away here and there but the underlying metal still impenetrable. Bastila couldn't see Revan's eyes, but she could feel the Dark Lord's attention on her, pressing in all around her, frigid and intense and suffocating, as though she were standing at the icy bottom of an ocean. She couldn't move a muscle, could only stand and stare back, feeling all too tiny (despite being nearly a head taller), all too vulnerable, helpless, her reflection in the empty visor swiftly paling._

 _After a short silence, a short stillness, Revan only said, her voice only slightly muffled by the mask, "You_ are _something."_

 _Then Revan was moving again, meeting Kavar in an incomprehensible tumult of motion and color. And Bastila was — somehow, miraculously — still alive. She came to understand, slowly, as she tried to get herself moving again over the next couple seconds, that Revan had spared her, consciously chosen to let her live._

 _She had absolutely no idea what to think about that._

 _The fight dragged on for what felt like hours, but could be only minutes. Her battle meditation obviously useless against the Dark Lord, Bastila joined the fight more directly, but she wasn't doing much good. She and the two Knights, as they tried to circle around, tried to get a shot in at Revan, she could only think they were getting in the way. Revan maneuvered around them with casual grace, batted their clumsy assaults aside with contemptuous ease. Kavar was the only one who seemed to be making any showing of himself at all. While she and Anis and Davon were forced back occasionally, by either lightning or blunt force summoned from the ether, one time a gout of purple flames that had Bastila skipping back and cursing under her breath, Kavar and Revan stayed toe-to-toe, lightsabers meeting and retreating and meeting again, the dance so fast they drew a solid web around them. They three could dart in and nip at the sides here and there, but Bastila couldn't help feeling their efforts were worse than useless._

 _That feeling only intensified when Anis fell to the floor, neatly bisected, dead so quickly she hadn't made a sound. Bastila hadn't even seen the blow that had taken her life, so sudden it had been, and she'd been standing right next to her._

 _As the fight dragged on and on, Bastila's limbs growing gradually heavier, sweat stinging at her eyes, she and Davon too obviously slowing, even Kavar turning tense, his movements tighter, less wasted energy, striking more cautiously, while Revan still seemed singularly composed, casual, she couldn't help the feeling, she knew this fight would last_ exactly _how long Revan wished it. As soon as she wanted them dead, it would be so._

 _And then, all at once, the four of them froze. She and Davon gasping, even Kavar seemingly at least slightly breathless, all of them focused on something else. A feeling, a blanket of descending doom, overwhelming, she could feel it falling, noise and terror and agony and death, only seconds away. But the feeling was too diffuse, too large, she couldn't tell where it was coming from, what it was. The Force wasn't even telling her which way to move, she was getting nothing. Only danger, imminent danger, that she was helpless to protect herself against._

 _The other two Jedi seemed as clueless as her. But Revan, she had turned away from them, head tipped to look out one of the windows. At the Sith capital ship there, slowly tumbling in place, a maneuver of some kind Bastila couldn't read. Lowly, talking to herself, even as the shields above them started to flare white with deadly radiance, Revan muttered, "Alek, you stupid son of a—"_

 _And then everything was noise, and fire, and the rushing blackness of hard vacuum._

* * *

Cianen Hayal idly tapped her fingernails against the glass, trying to contain her impatience. Because, of course, they just _had_ to be late to their meeting. She really shouldn't have expected any differently.

If she were to wait, this wasn't a bad place to do her waiting in. They'd left it up to her where exactly to make their introductions, so Cianen had picked her favorite of the restaurants she'd found in these last weeks wandering the Senate District of Coruscant. To be somewhat more precise, the favorite among those she'd found that weren't so ridiculously expensive the University wouldn't cover her expenses. This was the _Senate District of Coruscant_ , after all, the area had quite literally the highest standard of living in the entire galaxy. From the statistics she'd looked up in idle moments, even the waitstaff around here made a wage that would see them easily in the upper class on most Rim worlds. Yet even that wasn't enough to afford the meanest of housing within the bounds of the district itself — they all had to commute at least twenty kilometers, often significantly more.

Anyway, it was a rather nice place. All gleaming rosewood tables, carpets and drapes in red and blacks, curtains filtering the sunlight, setting everything to a ruddy glow, some sort of sonic dampening tech reducing the conversations at the other tables to an incomprehensible murmur — but, somehow, allowing light music, an absolutely ancient Alderaanian piece played by a being of a species she didn't recognise at a real _piano_ of all things, to slip through unmuffled. The menu wasn't bad, if somewhat too exotic in places, so far as human consumption was concerned. Perhaps rather more pricey than she'd ever be able to afford herself, but that's what the expense account was for.

So she waited, sipping away at a procession of sweetened monstrosities that _supposedly_ had caf in them (she wasn't convinced). Flipping through journals she had saved on her datapad, ignoring the time displayed mockingly in the corner, trying to ignore her own annoyance.

Honestly, the red tape the Jedi forced people to go through. Sure, they had found some previously unexplored ruins on Dantooine. Sure, they'd wanted a xenolinguist to supplement their own team. Sure, the University of Aldera was one of the best places in the galaxy to borrow one from. But did they really have to make thing so _difficult?_ It had taken _weeks_ of debate for both the University and the Jedi to agree on her, and _then_ she'd been here for _a couple more weeks_ for those damn interviews. Some sort of psych eval, apparently, to decide if they could trust her with...she wasn't sure, exactly. It wasn't like their investigation was classified or anything, she'd asked explicitly if she'd be able to publish whatever they found and been told that would be fine. But, who knew with Jedi? They could be so irrational about things sometimes.

There was a reason most of academia was wary when it came to working with the Jedi. It could be _very_ rewarding, of course, but they did tend to be...weird. Not to mention their bad habit of destroying artifacts or blacklisting sites — there was no telling how much had been lost during their so-called "Great Hunt", nor how long it would be until they lifted the blanket ban on any travel to Yavin IV. The Jedi did have a wealth of resources, and boasted some of the most uncorrupted scholars in the galaxy, but any work with them carried risks.

The point was, she was nearing the end of her patience. That she'd tolerated their delays and runarounds this long was rather magnanimous of her, she felt. After weeks of absurd negotiations, after weeks of pointless interviews, after days just _waiting_ for her escort to reach Coruscant, now she was waiting _hours_ for her contacts to finally get their butts down here. Honestly, we did she even _need_ a special escort to Dantooine? It was just Dantooine! The Jedi had regular shuttles going out to the place at least every week, they wouldn't have even had to tweak their schedule, and she would already be there! It was so stupid, she was so _tired_ of waiting for them to get their blasted act together.

Luckily for the last dregs of her sanity, her wait was finally over. They hadn't gotten to her table yet, no, they had just walked in the door, but all the same Cianen knew it was them as clearly as though they'd been announced. The people who frequented this place were mostly lower-level functionaries, perhaps ambassadorial staff from far-flung systems — irrespective of species and background, they had a way about them, a common set of habits and expectations that was identifiable in the way they dressed, the way they moved. The social environment at Aldera was similar enough Cianen was familiar with it, could blend in without too much trouble.

These two definitely didn't belong.

The first was a human woman, in tightly-tailored yet modest tunic and pants in pale orange and Republic red, brown hair cut short and bound sharply back, almost painfully practical. Her eyes darted around the room, hard and knowing, almost _too_ knowing, that way some people had of looking at someone and seeming to _know_ them, in an instant. (Cianen's gaze did the same thing, so she was well aware how unnerving people could find it.) There was something about the way she held herself, the way she walked — call it confidence, power, arrogance — whatever it was, Cianen didn't need the long lightsaber clipped to her hip to know this woman was a Jedi.

Just as she didn't need the red and gold Republic uniform to know the human man following at the Jedi's heel was military — he had the proper dignified posture, the almost regimented discipline in his gait. Though he wasn't _perfectly_ regulation. His dark hair was a bit longer than she thought was normal, flipping over his forehead in wispy curls, a bit more scruff on his face. A long cloak of thick, brown cloth half-hid the uniform, blasters just peeking out at each hip, not standard at all. Not to mention his expression, an almost petulant glare fixed on the Jedi's back. Enough personality to him she _almost_ couldn't imagine he'd been put together on an assembly line somewhere.

She had encountered droids with plenty of personality, after all.

The Jedi didn't even hesitate for a moment. Hands folded at the small of her back, she wound her way through the tables, breezing right past the flustered hostess without a word — if she weren't a Caamasi might have reacted a bit more to that flagrant rudeness — making straight for Cianen. She'd probably been sent a holo or something. Oh, sure, if asked the Jedi would claim she'd _sensed her through the Force_ or whatever, they did like their whole mysterious ethos they had going, but the mundane explanation was far simpler. In a moment she was standing at the opposite side of Cianen's table, glaring down at her, face so tightly expressionless it was rigid. "Professor Hayal?"

Not moving an inch from where she sat reclined in her chair, Cianen lifted her glass in a little salute. She took a sip, drawing it out longer than necessary, before returning it to the surface. Eyes falling back to her datapad, she said, "You're late, Master Jedi. I was told to expect you—" A quick glance at the time. "—nearly three hours ago."

Cianen wasn't looking directly at her, maintaining her illusion of apathetic inattention, but she still caught the flash of a dark glower crossing the Jedi's face, there for the shortest instant before wiping away again. Hmm, odd — were Jedi even allowed to glower? _There is no passion_ , and all that. After a second of silence, the Jedi found her voice again. "My deepest apologies, Professor." Cianen blinked — were Jedi even allowed sarcasm? "We were held up on the way down to the surface longer than expected."

Personally, she found it hard to believe this Jedi could be unfamiliar with the frustrations of Coruscant traffic. But she shrugged it off. "No matter. Have a seat," she said, nodding at the empty seats around her table. "Lunch is on me." Or, on the University, anyway, but it made little difference. "Well, more like dinner now, I suppose."

The military man let out a snort at that, but accepted a seat gracefully enough. The Jedi hesitated a moment longer but, after an almost helpless glance at the man, collapsed into a seat with a thin sigh. "Very well. The _Spire_ won't be finished tripling for a few hours in any case."

Cianen was confused for a moment, before it came to her — Navy slang from refueling, restocking, and rearming, the three Rs. Right. "The _Spire?_ "

The man got to it before the Jedi did. "The _Endar Spire_ , it's a _Hammerhead_ light cruiser. And we never did get to introductions, did we?" Sticking a hand out over the table, lips tilting into a smirk, "Captain Carth Onasi."

She couldn't help the twitching of her own lips at the Jedi's wince. Taking his hand, "Cianen Hayal."

Onasi frowned at the name. "Alderaanian?"

"Originally. I was born on Shelkonwa." He was of Corellian extraction, of course, but Cianen couldn't even begin to guess which planet he was actually from. Corellians had spread themselves so widely across the galaxy it could be any of thousands of worlds. By contrast, Alderaanian colonies were few, probably less than a hundred worlds concentrated in the core, only a few trailing out along the Perlemian. They did have minority populations on a wealth of other worlds, but humans of Alderaanian descent were still far less ubiquitous than those of Corellian, hence his surprise at her name.

It was actually rather fascinating, human language groups. Other species had colonised alien worlds, of course, but humans have been doing it longer than almost anyone else, and had spread to many times more. For most of recorded history, it had been assumed humans had originally evolved on Coruscant — no primary evidence had survived, but that was the general feeling in any case. (There had been alternative theories, but those had been summarily quashed when, about three hundred years ago, the Columi had handed over sensor records of an early industrial society on what would become Coruscant dating to roughly a hundred thousand years ago.) Even before the advent of hyperdrive, their ancestors had flung out sleeper ships in all directions, to dozens of worlds. The descendents of the original settlers eventually spread to more worlds, bringing their language and culture with them.

Fascinatingly, all evidence suggested the ancient humans of Coruscant hadn't all spoken one language — the different cultural groups spread all across the galaxy spoke different, sometimes completely unrelated languages. Basic, the core of which was generally assumed to have evolved on Coruscant (though it has borrowed heavily from other languages both human and alien since), was seemingly related to the languages of Corellia, however distantly. Finding cognates could be a bit complicated, since they'd both borrowed from Duros languages, some of which were extinct in the modern day, but there were far too many phonological, syntactic, and lexical similarities for it to be coincidence. Similarly, Tionese and Kuati languages seemed to be related.

There was one example Cianen still couldn't get over. It had been repeatedly postulated that it was _possible_ human communities, when isolated on an alien world for long enough, might see enough genetic drift to eventually become a distinct species. Several alien species were far too similar to baseline humans for it to be coincidence, it had been frequently suggested they and humans had common ancestry. (They hadn't any original records on the sleeper ships or their destinations, after all.) One example were the Zeltrons, long assumed to be distant relatives, though genetic confirmation had been slow. Linguists at the time, though, quickly realized the majority language of Zeltros was, quite clearly, a member of the same family as Old Alderash — Zeltrons and Alderaanians were distant cousins. She'd first heard the story, how linguists had proved the existence of the extended human family before biologists had gotten there, when she'd been a small child, had had an enduring love for language ever since.

The original point, before she got distracted, was that Corellians and Alderaanians had once spoken completely unrelated languages. (They'd gone extinct in favor of Basic millennia ago now, but the traditional languages were still preserved in names.) It wasn't at all unreasonable for Onasi to recognize the name as Alderaanian, to nod to himself with understanding at a native of Shelkonwa, a planet predominantly settled by Alderaanians, bearing an Alderaanian name.

Yes, back to the conversation. She had a bad habit of letting her mind wander. "Well, I apologize in advance for taking up space on your ship, Captain."

An expression of confusion crossed Onasi's face for a second, followed with a sharp guffaw of surprise. "No, no, I'm not a _navy_ captain. The _Spire_ 's commander is Artik Kre'laq." Hmm, that name _could_ be Caamasi, but they were hardly ever found in the military. Bothan was far more likely, for cultural reasons. "I'm with Starfighter Command."

"Ah." That did explain rather a lot, actually. A greater degree of minute-to-minute creativity was often prized in fighter pilots, the sort of individuality basic training was designed to squash more often than not nurtured instead. Onasi's slightly off-color presentation made perfect sense now. But anyway, "Picking up the civilian beneath the good Captain's dignity, I take it."

A smirk again twitched at Onasi's lips. "Something like that."

"Would it be safe to assume, given that he sent you in his place, that the two of you don't exactly get along?"

"Far be it from me to correct the fancy Alderaanian professor."

"Mm." The server wandered up around then, a Caamasi with almost glowing golden fur by the name of Araqos. When she'd first started wandering the District, she'd been a bit blindsided by how many places here had living waitstaff — at least throughout the Core, droids were used almost exclusively. Perhaps the powerful, so thickly concentrated here like they were nowhere else, simply enjoyed having people to order about. Though, this place specifically, maybe they just felt like it. Caamasi could be weird like that sometimes. Onasi made his order easily enough — he did horridly mispronounce _ynari ak-qhuguel_ , but Araqos had to be used to aliens slaughtering Caamasi by now. The Jedi just waved Araqos off without a word, not even looking at him, still blandly staring at Cianen's collarbone.

Wow. _Rude_.

After mumbling an apology in Caamasi — Araqos just cheerfully brushed it off, wandered away again — Cianen turned back to the Jedi. And she smiled. It wasn't a _nice_ one, exactly, the sort of inoffensive smile that hid cruelty just beneath. It only took a week or two for her grad students to learn to fear this smile. Holding her hand out over the table, Cianen said, "And _you_ are?"

The Jedi didn't reach to take her hand. Instead, her eyes flicked down to it, almost seeming to glare. And, wow, _rude_ again. What was her problem? Voice low, flat, cold, "Bastila Shan." Cianen entirely forgot her planned mockery when she recognized the name.

She wasn't exactly a fan of the Jedi, but she still knew who this was. _Everybody_ knew who Bastila Shan was. A Kuati Jedi — at least, the name was Kuati, who knew where she was actually from — of this newest generation, come to Knighthood after the Mandalorian Wars. While still young, not as thoroughly accomplished as some other Jedi she could name, Shan had somehow made herself absolutely critical to the Republic war effort. Something the Jedi called "battle meditation", though Cianen had no clue what that was. Which was slightly irritating, actually, she _liked_ knowing things, but the Jedi could be infuriatingly vague about their own abilities. But even the hardest of skeptics could recognize the pattern: any battle where Bastila Shan happened to be present ended in the Republic's favor.

These days, it seemed their _only_ victories were (somehow, inexplicably) thanks to this one Jedi. It was...interesting, how people spoke of her these days. Disturbingly messianic at times, but still interesting.

Oh, not to mention, there was also that whole killing Revan business. Though apparently that had been more Kavar than Shan. But still.

Cianen remembered herself after a few seconds, letting her hand fall away. "Well. Are you sure you wouldn't rather order something, Master Jedi? You might just make Araqos's day. You know how his people can be about the Jedi."

"Araqos?"

"Our waiter. You know, the one you completely ignored."

Shan just stared back at her, eyes slightly narrowed.

The flash of annoyance was entirely unexpected, but Cianen didn't bother fighting it. "I wonder, do they give you Jedi etiquette lessons, or is teaching you to behave like people considered counterproductive?"

A storm of spluttering and coughing sounded from her right. Sounded like Onasi had snorted into his water. Shan shot in his direction what could _almost_ be considered a disgusted look, if it weren't buried under several kilometers of Jedi self-importance — excuse her, she meant _serenity_. After a second of not-glaring, Shan turned back to Cianen, shooting her would could _almost_ be considered an offended look, if it weren't blah blah blah. "I can see I'm not needed here. Until it is time to return to the _Spire_ , I will be at the Temple library. Finding something _productive_ to do." The Jedi swung up to her feet, and swirled away, in something just shy of a huff.

Cianen watched her leave, shaking her head to herself. "Is she always like that?"

"Yes." The word was said with an impressive depth of weariness — Shan's attitude was apparently a frequent frustration for Onasi. "You get used to it."

She turned to the older man, a single eyebrow ticking up her forehead.

For a second he held out, sipping at his water again, but then he winced. "Okay, you don't, really. She's... Well, she's mostly holed up with the rest of the Jedi. You won't see very much of her, don't worry."

"Hmm." That was something at least. Though, the phrase _rest of the Jedi_ was less than reassuring, at least she wouldn't have to put up with Shan much at all. Dantooine wasn't really that far away, and then that would be that.

After all, it wasn't like the Republic could afford to have _Bastila Shan_ of all people babysitting linguistics professors poking about ruins.

* * *

Beskar — _For any who don't know, this is the word in Mando'a for the infamously nigh-indestructible metal the Mandalorians use for almost everything._

* * *

 _And there's the first two scenes of that one. Wee._

 _This will feature a lot of shit going on that is simply not an option in the original game, the plot only loosely paralleling that in canon. Plus my usual fucking with the worldbuilding, of course. Theoretically, this fic should run through both KotOR games, but the transition might be slightly awkward so, if I ever get to writing it, I might end up splitting the two._

 _Personally, I'm leaning rather heavily toward this fic as my next one. I just came up with it in the last week, and I have ideas that entertain me. But we'll see what happens when it happens._

 _Hopefully, more of_ Her Mother's Love _in the near future. Finally. Until then, thanks to all those who continue to put up with my bullshit._

 _~Wings_


End file.
